




















FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN 


A SEQUEL TO “ MARGUERITE DE VALOIS,” AND “CHICOT 

THE JESTER" 



BY 

ALEXANDRE DUMAS 

n 

AUTHOR OF 

“CONSPIRATORS," “MEMOIRS OF A PHYSICIAN," ETC. 









GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS, Limited 
New York: 9 Lafayette Place 
London, Glasgow and Manchester 


IN UNIFORM STYLE: 

15 volumes in a box ; with 100 illustrations. 

In the following list the volumes are grozipel 
together in the different series in which they are 
published , and- each group is arranged in the 
order in which it should be read. 

THE COUNT OF MONTE-CRISTO. 

THE THREE MUSKETEERS. 1 

TWENTY YEARS AFTER. t 

THE VICOMTE DE BRAGELONNE. a Vols. ) 

MARGUERITE DE VALOIS. » 

CHICOT, THE JESTER. [■ 

THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. ) 

THE CONSPIRATORS. 1 

THE REGENT’S DAUGHTER. > 

MEMOIRS OF A PHYSICIAN. 

THE QUEEN'S NECKLACE. 

TAKING THE BASTILE. 

THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY. 

THE CHEVALIER DE MAISON ROUGE. - 


George Routledge and Sons, Limited, 

* • « «««• 

‘o.'Lk/'iyoite Plac&,« tUbw York. 

« «••«•••*<• « « « • * 
« • « « « • t *«•••«« « « I • ♦ * 
































' 

* 












































* 



































































































• . 























Henri of Navarre, 




ER 


CHAPTER 

I. THE PORTE ST. ANTOINE - 

II. WHAT PASSED OUTSIDE THE PORTE ST. ANTOINE 

III. THE EXAMINATION 

IV. HIS MAJESTY HENRI THE THIRD 

V. THE EXECUTION - 

VI. THE BROTHERS - 

VII. “THE SWORD OF THE BRAVE CHEVALI 

VIII. THE GASCON 

IX. M. DE LOIGNAC - 

X. THE PURCHASE OF CUIRASSES 

XI. STILL THE LEAGUE 

XII. THE CHAMBER OF HIS MAJESTY HENRI III 

XIII. THE DORMITORY - 

XIV. THE SHADE OF CHICOT 

XV. THE DIFFICULTY OF FINDING A GOO 

SADOR 

XVI. THE SERENADE - 

XVII. CHICOT’S PURSE - 
XVIII. THE PRIORY OF THE JACOBINS - 

XIX. THE TWO FRIENDS 

XX. THE BREAKFAST - 

XXI. BROTHER BORROMEE 

XXII. THE LESSON 
XXIII. THE PENITENT • 

XXIV. THE AMBUSH 
XXV. THE GUISES - 


D A 


MBAS 





PAGE 

I 

5 

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12 

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21 

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39 

44 

47 

5i 

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62 

68 

73 

74 
77 
81 
S3 
86 
90 
93 
97 


IV 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER 

XXVI. THE LOUVRE - 

XXVII. THE REVELATION 

XXVIII. TWO FRIENDS 

XXIX. ST. MALINE 

XXX. DE LOIGNAC’S INTERVIEW WITH THE FORTY- FIVE 

XXXI. THE BOURGEOIS OF PARIS 

XXXII. BROTHER BORROMEE - - - 

XXXIII. CHICOT, LATINIST 

XXXIV. THE FOUR WINDS 

XXXV. HOW CHICOT CONTINUED HIS JOURNEY, AND 
WHAT HAPPENED TO HIM - 
XXXVI. THE THIRD DAY OF THE JOURNEY 
XXXVII. ERNANTON DE CARMAINGF.S - 

XXXVIII. THE STABLE-YARD 

XXXIX. THE SEVEN SINS OF MAGDALENE - 

XL. BEL-ESBAT 

XLI. THE LETTER OF M. DE MAYENNE ... 
XLII. HOW DOM GORENFLOT BLESSED THE KING AS 
HE PASSED BEFORE THE PRIORY OF THE 

JACOBINS 

XLIII. HOW CHICOT BLESSED KING LOUIS LI. FOR 
HAVING INVENTED POSTING, AND RESOLVED 

TO PROFIT BY IT 

XLIV. HOW THE KING OF NAVARRE GUESSES THAT 
“TURENNIUS” MEANS TURENNE, AND “ MAR- 
GOTA” MARGOT - - - 

XLV. THE AVENUE THREE THOUSAND FEET LONG 

XLVI. MARGUERITE’S ROOM 

XLVII. THE EXPLANATION 

XLVIII. THE SPANISH AMBASSADOR 

XLIX. THE POOR OF HENRI OF NAVARRE - 

L. THE TRUE MISTRESS OF THE KING OF NAVARRE 
LI. CHICOT’S ASTONISHMENT AT FINDING HIMSELF 

SO POPULAR IN NERAC 

LII. HOW THEY HUNTED THE WOLF IN NAVARRE - 
LIII. HOW HENRI OF NAVARRE BEHAVED IN BATTLE - 
LIV. WHAT WAS PASSING AT THE LOUVRE ABOUT THE 
TIME CHICOT ENTERED NERAC 


PAGE 

IOO 

103 

107 

no 

114 

119 

123 

127 

129 

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140 

145 

150 

155 

162 


167 


172 


1 77 

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185 
188 
193 
197 
203 . 

208 

215 

221 

226 


CO A TENTS. 


v 


CHAPTER 

LV. RED PLUME AND WHITE PLUME - 

LVI. THE DOOR OPENS 

LVII. HOW A GREAT LADY LOVED IN THE YEAR 1 586 - 
LVIII. HOW ST. MALINE ENTERED INTO THE TURRET, 

AND WHAT FOLLOWED 

LIX. WHAT WAS PASSING IN THE MYSTERIOUS HOUSE 

LX. THE LABORATORY 

LXI. WHAT MONSEIGNEUR FRANCOIS, DUC D’ANJOU, 
DUC DE BRABANT AND COMTE DE FLANDERS, 
WAS DOING IN FLANDERS - 

LXII. PREPARATIONS FOR BATTLE - 

LXIII. MONSEIGNEUR 

LXIV. MONSEIGNF.UR 

LXV. FRENCH AND FLEMINGS - - - 

LXVI. THE TRAVELLERS « 

LXVII. EXPLANATION * - 

LXVIII. THE WATER .» 

LXIX. FLIGHT - ..a-... 

LXX. TRANSFIGURATION - 

LXXI. THE TWO BROTHERS 

LXXII. THE EXPEDITION 

LXXIII. PAUL-EMILE 

LXXIV. ONE OF THE SOUVENIRS OF THE DUC D’ANJOU - 
LXXV. HOW AURILLY EXECUTED THE COMMISSION OF 

THE DUC D’ANJOU 

LXXVI. THE JOURNEY 

LXXVII. HOW KING HENRI III. DID NOT INVITE CRILLCN 
TO BREAKFAST, AND HOW CHICOT INVITED 

HIMSELF 

LXXVI 1 1. HOW, AFTER RECEIVING NEWS FROM THE SOUTH, 
HENRI RECEIVED NEWS FROM THE NORTH - 

LXXIX. THE TWO COMPANIONS 

LXXX. THE CORNE D’ABONDANCE 

LXXXI. WHAT HAPPENED IN THE LITTLE ROOM 
LXXXII. THE HUSBAND AND THE LOVER - - - 

LXXXIII. SHOWING HOW CHICOT BEGAN TO UNDERSTAND 
THE PURPORT OF MONSIEUR DE GUISE’S 
LETTER 


P/C2 

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237 

241 

249 

253 

258 


26l 

266 

272 

275 

280 

287 

291 

296 

301 

307 

311 

316 

320 

325 

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34i 


345 

353 

359 

362 

365 

378 


387 


VI 


CONTENTS ; 


CHAPTER PAGE 

LXXXIV. LE CARDINAL DE JOYEUSE 394 

LXXXV. NEWS FROM AURILLY 404 

LXXXVI. DOUBT- - -- -- -- - 409 

LXXXVII. CERTAINTY 416 

LX XXVI 1 1. FATALITY 424 

LXXXIX. LES HOSPITALIERES - 43 1 

XC. HIS HIGHNESS MONSEIGNEUR LE DUC DE GUISE 439 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


CHAPTER l. 

THE PORTE ST. ANTOINE. 

On the 26th of October, 1585, the barriers of the Porte St. 
Antoine were, contrary to custom, still closed at half-past ten 
in the morning. A quarter of an hour after, a guard of 
twenty Swiss, the favourite troops of Henri III., then king, 
passed through these barriers, which were again closed behind 
them. Once through, they arranged themselves along the 
hedges, which, outside the barrier, bordered each side of the 
road. 

There was a great crowd collected there, for numbers of pea- 
sants and other people had been stopped at the gates on their 
way into Paris. They were arriving by three different roads — 
from Montreuil, from Vincennes, and from St Maur ; and the 
crowd was growing more dense every moment. Monks from 
the convent in the neighbourhood, women seated on pack- 
saddles, and peasants in their carts, and all, by their questions 
more or less pressing, formed a continual murmur, while some 
voices were raised above the others in shriller tones of anger 
or complaint. 

There were, besides this mass of arrivals, some groups who 
seemed to have come from the city. These, instead of looking 
at the gate, fastened their gaze on the horizon, bounded by the 
Convent of the Jacobins, the Priory of Vincennes, and the 
Croix Faubin, as though they were expecting to see some one 
arrive. These groups consisted chiefly of bourgeois, vrarmly 
wrapped up, for the weather was cold, and the piercing north- 

1 


2 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN, 


east wind seemed trying to tear from the trees all the few re< 
maining leaves which clung sadly to them. 

Three of these bourgeois were talking together — that is tc 
say, two talked and one listened, or rather seemed to listen, sc 
occupied was he in looking towards Vincennes. Let us turn 
our attention to this last. He was a man who must be tall 
when he stood upright, but at this moment his long legs were 
bent under him, and his arms, not less long in proportion, were 
crossed over his breast. He was leaning against the hedge, 
which almost hid his face, before which he also held up his 
hand as if for further concealment. By his side a little 
man, mounted on a hillock, was talking to another tall man 
who was constantly slipping off the summit of the same hil- 
lock, and at each slip catching at the button of his neighbour’s 
doublet. 

“ Yes, Maitre Miton,” said the little man to the tall one, 
“yes, I tell you that there will be 100,000 people around the 
scaffold of Salcede, — 100,000 at least. See, without counting 
those already on the Place de Greve, or who came there from 
' different parts of Paris, the number of people here ; and this 
is but one gate out of sixteen.” 

“ 100,000 ! that is much, Friard,” replied M. Miton. “Be 
sure many people will follow my example, and not go to see 
this unlucky man quartered, for fear of an uproar.” 

“ M. Miton, there will be none, I answer for it. Do you not 
think so, monsieur ?” continued he, turning to the long-armed 
man. 

“ What ?” said the other, as though he had not heard. 

“ They say there will be nothing on the Place de Greve to- 
day.” 

“ I think you are wrong, and that there will be the execution 
of Salcede.” 

“ Yes, doubtless : but I mean that there will be no noise 
about it.” 

“ There will be the noise of the blows of the whip, which 
they will give to the horses.” 

“ You do not understand ; by noise I mean tumult. If 
there were likely to be any, the king would not have had a 
stand prepared for him and the two queens at the Hotel de 
Ville.” 

“ Do kings ever know when a tumult will take place ?” re^ 
plied the other, shrugging his shoulders with an air of pity. 


THE PORTE ST. AN TO IRE. 3 

“ Oh, oh !” said M. Miton ; “ this man talks in a singular way. 
Do you know who he is, compere ?” 

“ No.” 

“ Then why do you speak to him ? You are wrong. Ido 
not think he likes to talk.” 

“ And yet it seems to me,” replied Friard, loud enough to 
be heard by the stranger, “ that one of the greatest pleasures 
in life is to exchange thoughts.” 

“Yes, with those whom we know well,” answered M. 
Miton. 

“ Are not all men brothers, as the priests say ?” 

“ They were primitively ; but in times like ours the relation- 
ship is singularly loosened. Talk low, if you must talk, and 
leave the stranger alone.” 

“ But I know you so well, I know what you will reply, while 
this stranger may have something new to tell me.” 

“ Hush ! he is listening.” 

“ So much the better ; perhaps he will answer. Then you 
think, monsieur,” continued he, turning again towards him, 
“ that there will be a tumult ?” 

“ I did not say so.” 

“No ; but I believe you think so.” 

tc And on what do you found your surmise, M. Friard ?” 

“Why, he knows me !” 

“ Have I not named you two or three times ?” said Miton. 

“Ah! true. Well, since he knows me, perhaps he will 
answer. Now, monsieur, I believe you agree with me, or else 
would be there, while on the contrary, you are here.” 

“ But you, M. Friard, since you think the contrary of what 
you think I think, w r hy are you not at the Place de Greve ? I 
thought the spectac2e would have been a joyful one to all friends 
of the king. Perhaps you will reply that you are not friends of 
the king, but of MM. de Guise, and that you are waiting here 
for the Lorraines, who they say are about to enter Paris in order 
to deliver M. de Salcede .” 

“ No, monsieur,” replied the little man, visibly frightened at 
this suggestion ; “I wait for my wife, Nicole Friard, who has 
gone to take twenty-four tablecloths to the priory of the Jacobins, 
having the honour to be washerwoman to Dom. Modeste Goren- 
Hot, the Abbe.” 

“Look, compere,” cried Miton, “at what is passing.” 

M. Friard, following the direction of his friend’s finger, saw 

J -2 


4 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


them closing yet another door, while a party of Swiss placed 
themselves before it. “ How ! more barriers !’’ cried he. 

“ What did I tell you ?” said Miton. 

At the sight of this new precaution, a long murmur of 
astonishment and some cries of discontent proceeded from the 
crowd. 

“ Clear the road ! Back !” cried an officer. 

This manoeuvre was not executed without difficulty; the 
people in carts and on horseback tried to go back, and nearly 
crushed the crowd behind them. Women cried- and men 
swore, while those who could escape, did, overturning the 
others. 

“ The Lorraines ! the Lorraines !” cried a voice in the midst 
of this tumult. 

“ Oh !” cried Miton, trembling, “let us fly.” 

“ Fly ! and where ?” said Friard. 

“ Into this inclosure,” answered Miton, tearing his hands by 
seizing the thorns of the hedge. 

“ Into that inclosure, it is not so easy ; I see no opening, and 
you cannot climb a hedge that is higher than I am.” 

“ I will try,” returned Miton, making new efforts. 

“ Oh ! take care, my good woman,” cried Friard, in a tone of 
distress ; “ your ass is on my feet. Oh, monsieur, take care, 
your horse is going to kick.” 

While M. Miton was vainly trying to climb the hedge, ard 
M. Friard to find an opening through which to push himself, 
their neighbour quietly opened his long legs and strode over the 
hedge with as much ease as one might have leaped it on 
horseback. M. Miton imitated him at last after much detri- 
ment to his hands and clothes ; but poor Friard could not suc- 
ceed, in spite of all his efforts, till the stranger, stretching out 
his long arms, and seizing him by the collar of his doublet, 
lifted him over. 

“ Ah ! monsieur,” said he, when he felt himself on the ground, 
“on the word of Jean Friard, you are a real Hercules; your 
name, monsieur ? the name of my deliverer ?” 

“I am called Briquet — Robert Briquet, monsieur.” 

“ You have saved me, M. Briquet — my wife will bless you. 
But kpropos ; mon Dieu ! she will be stifled in this crowd. 
Ah ! cursed Swiss, only good to crush people !” 

As he spoke, he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder, and, look, 
ing round and seeing that it was a Swiss, he took to flight, fob 


WHAT PASSED OUTSIDE 7 HE PORTE ST. ANTOINE. 5 

lowed by Miton. The other man laughed quietly, then turning 
lo the Swiss, said, — 

“ Are the Lorraines coming ?” 

“ No. 5 ’ 

“ Then why do they close the door. I do not understand it. 5 ’ 
“ There is no need that you should,” replied the Swiss, laugh- 
ing at his own wit. 


CHAPTER II. 

WHAT PASSED OUTSIDE THE PORTE ST. ANTOINE. 

One of the groups was formed of a considerable number of 
citizens. They surrounded four or five of a martial appearance, 
whom the closing of the doors annoyed very much, as it 
seemed, for they cried with all their might, “ The door ! the 
door !” 

Robert Briquet advanced towards this group, and began to 
cry also, “ The door ! the door !” 

One of the cavaliers, charmed at this, turned towards him 
and said, ‘ Is it not shameful, monsieur, that they should close 
the gates in open day, as though the Spaniards or the English 
were besieging Paris ?” 

Robert Briquet looked attentively at the speaker, who seemed 
to be about forty-five years of age, and the principal personage 
in the group. “Yes, monsieur,” replied he, “you are right; 
but may I venture to ask what you think their motive is for 
these precautions ?” 

“ Pardieu ! the fear they have lest some one should eat their 
Salcede.” 

“ Diable !” said a voice, “a sad meal.” 

Robert Briquet turned towards the speaker, whose voice had 
a strong Gascon accent, and saw a young man from twenty to 
twenty- five, resting his hand on the crupper of the horse of the 
first speaker. His head was bare ; he had probably lost his 
hat in the melee. 

“ But as they say,” replied Briquet, “ that this Salcede be- 
longs to M. de Guise ” 

“ Bah i they say that !” 

“ Then you do not believe it, monsieur ?” 

“ Certainly not,” replied the cavalier, “ doubtless, if he had, 
the duke would not have let him be taken, or at all events 


6 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


would not have allowed him to have been carried from Brussels 
to Paris bound hand and foot, without even trying to rescue 
him.” 

“ An attempt to rescue him,” replied Briquet, “ would have 
been very dangerous, because, whether it failed or succeeded, it 
would have been an avowal, on the duke’s part, that he had 
conspired against the Due d’Anjou.” 

“ M. de Guise would not, I am sure, have been restrained by 
such considerations ; therefore, as he has not defended Salcede, 
it is certain that he is not one of his men.” 

“ Excuse me, monsieur, if I insist, but it is not I who invent, 
for it appears that Salcede has confessed.” 

“ Where ? before the judges ?” 

“ No, monsieur ; at the torture.” 

“ They asserted that he did, but they do not repeat what he 
said.” 

“Excuse me again, monsieur, but they do.” 

“ And what did he say ?” cried the cavalier impatiently. “ As 
you seem so well informed, what were his words ?” 

“ I cannot certify that they were his words,” replied Briquet, 
who seemed to take a pleasure in teazing the cavalier. 

“ Well, then, those they attribute to him.” 

“ They assert that he has confessed that he conspired for 
M. de Guise.” 

“ Against the king, of course ?” 

“No ; against the Due d’Anjou.” 

“If he confessed that ” 

“Well ?” 

“ Well, he is a poltroon !” said the cavalier, frowning. 

“ Ah ! monsieur, the boot and the thumb-screw make a man 
confess many things.” 

“ Alas ! that is true, monsieur.” 

“ Bah !” interrupted the Gascon, “ the boot and the thumb' 
screw, nonsense ; if Salcede confessed that, he was a knave, 
and his patron another.” 

“You speak loudly, monsieur,” said the cavalier. 

“ I speak as I please ; so much the worse for those who dis- 
like it.” 

“ More calmly,” said a voice at once soft and imperative, of 
which Briquet vainly sought the owner. 

The cavalier seemed to make an effort over himself, and 
then said quietly to the Gascon, “ Do you know him of whom 
you speak ?” 


WHAT PASSED OUTSIDE THE PORTE ST. ANTOINE. 7 

“ Salcede ?” 

“ Yes.” 

w Not in the least.” 

“ And the Due de Guise ?” 

“ Still less.” 

“ Well, then, Salcede is a brave man.” 

“ So much the better ; he will die bravely.” 

“ And know that, when the Due de Guise wishes to conspire, 
he conspires for himself.” 

“ What do I care ?” 

“ What !” 

“ Mayneville ! Mayneville !” murmured the same voice. 

“Yes, mordieu ! what do I care?” continued the Gascon. 
“ I came to Paris on business, and find the gates closed on ac- 
count of this execution — that is all I care for.” 

At this moment there was a sound of trumpets. The Swiss 
had cleared the middle of the road, along which a crier pro- 
ceeded, dressed in a flowered tunic, and bearing on his breast 
a scutcheon on which was embroidered the arms of Paris. He 
read from a paper in his hand the following proclamation : 

“ This is to make known to our good people of Paris and its 
environs, that its gates will be closed for one hour, and that 
none can enter during that time ; and this by the will of the 
King and the Mayor of Paris.” 

The crowd gave vent to their discontent in a long hoot, 
to which, however, the crier seemed indifferent. The officer 
commanded silence, and when it was obtained, the crier con- 
tinued : 

“ All who are the bearers of a sign of recognition, or are 
summoned by letter or mandate, are exempt from this rule. 
Given at the Hotel of the Provost of Paris, 26th of October, 

1585.” 

Scarcely had the crier ceased to speak, when the crowd began 
to undulate like a serpent behind the line of soldiers. 

“ What is the meaning of this ?” cried all. 

“ Oh ! it is to keep us out of Paris,” said the cavalier, who 
had been speaking in a low voice to his companions. “ These 
guards, this crier, these bars, and these trumpets are all for us ; 
we ought to be proud of them.” 

“ Room !” cried the officer in command ; “ make room for 
those who have the right to pass !” 

“ Cap de Bious ! I know who will pass, whoever is kept out !” 


8 


THE FORTY -FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


said the Gascon, leaping into the cleared space. He walked 
straight up to the officer who had spoken, and who looked at 
him for some moments in silence, and then said : 

“ You have lost your hat, it appears, monsieur?” 

“ Yes, monsieur.” 

“ Is it in the crowd ?” 

“ No. I had just received a letter from my sweetheart, and 
was reading it, cap de Bious ! near the river, about a mile from 
here, when a gust of wind carried away both my letter and my 
hat. I ran after the letter, although the button of my hat was 
a single diamond ; I caught my letter, but my hat was carried 
by the wind into the middle of the river. It will make the for- 
tune of the poor devil who finds it” 

“ So that you have none ?” 

“ Oh, there are plenty in Paris, cap de Bious ! I will buy a 
more magnificent one, and put in it a still larger diamond.” 

The officer shrugged his shoulders slightly, and said, “ Have 
you a card ?” 

“Certainly I have one — or rather two.” 

“One is enough, if it be the right one.” 

“ But it cannot be wrong — oh, no, cap de Bious ! Is it to 
M. de Loignac that I have the honour of speaking?” 

“It is possible,” said the officer coldly, and evidently not 
much charmed at the recognition. 

“ M. de Loignac, my compatriot ?” 

“ I do not say no.” 

“ My cousin !” 

“ Good ! Your card ?” 

“ Here it is and the Gascon drew out the half of a card, 
carefully cut. 

“ Follow me,” said De Loignac, without looking at it, “ and 
your companions, if you have any. We will verify the admis- 
sions.” 

The Gascon obeyed, and five other gentlemen followed him. 
The first was adorned with a magnificent cuirass, so marvellous 
in its work that it seemed as if it had come out of the hands of 
Benvenuto Cellini. However, as the make of this cuirass was 
somewhat old-fashioned, its magnificence attracted more laughter 
than admiration ; and it is true that no other part of the cos- 
tume of the individual in question corresponded with this mag- 
nificence. The second, who was lame, was followed by a grey- 
headed lackey, who looked like the precursor of Sancho Panza, 


WHAT PASSED OUTSIDE TIIE FORTE ST. ANTOINE. 9 

as his master did of Don Quixote. The third carried a child 
of ten months old in his arms, and was followed by a woman, 
who kept a tight grasp of his leathern belt, while two other 
children, one four and the other five years old, held by her dress. 

The fourth was attached to an enormous sword, and the fifth, 
Mho closed the troop, was a handsome young man, mounted on 
a black horse. He looked like a king by the side of the others. 
Forced to regulate his pace by those who preceded him, he was 
advancing slowly, when he felt a sudden pull at the scabbard 
of his sword ; he turned round, and saw that it had been done 
by a slight and graceful young man with black hair and soarkling 
eyes. 

“What do you desire, monsieur?” said the cavalier. 

“A favour, monsieur.” 

“ Speak ; but quickly, I pray you, for I am waited for.” 

“ I desire to enter into the city, monsieur ; an imperious 
necessity demands my presence there. You, on your part, are 
alone, and want a page to do justice to your appearance.” 

“ Well ?” 

“ Take me in, and I will be your page.” 

“ Thank you ; but I do not wish to be served by any one.” 

“ Not even by me,” said the young man, \\ T ith such a strange 
glance, that the cavalier felt the icy reserve in which he had 
tried to close his heart melting away. 

' “ I meant to say that I could be served by no one,” said he. 

“ Yes, I know you are not rich, M. Ernanton de Carmainges,” 
said the young page. The cavalier started, but the lad went 
on, “ therefore I do not speak of wages ; it is you, on the con- 
trary, who, if you grant what I ask, shall be paid a hundredfold 
for the service you will render me ; let me enter with you, then, 
I beg, remembering that he who now begs, has often com- 
manded.” Then, turning to the group of which we have already 
spoken, the lad said, “ I shall pass ; that is the most important 
thing ; but you, Mayneville, try to do so also if possible.” 

“ It is not everything that you should pass,” replied Mayne- 
ville ; “ it is necessary that he should see you.” 

“ Make yourself easy ; once I am through, he shall see me.” 

“ Do not forget the sign agreed upon.” 

“ Two fingers on the mouth, is it not ?” 

“ Yes ; success attend you.” 

“ Well, monsieur page,” said the man on the black horse, 
“ are you ready ?” 


IO 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


“ Here I am,” replied he, jumping lightly on the horse, be- 
hind the cavalier, who immediately joined his friends who were 
occupied in exhibiting their cards and proving their right to 
enter. 

“ Ventre de Biche !” said Robert Briquet ; “ what an arrival 
of Gascons.” 


CHAPTER III. 

THE EXAMINATION. 

The process of examination consisted in comparing the half 
card with another half in the possession of the officer. 

The Gascon with the bare head advanced first. 

“ Your name ?” said De Loignac. 

“ It is on the card.” 

“ Never mind ; tell it to me.” 

“ Well, I am called Perducas de Pincornay.” 

Then, throwing his eyes on the card, M. de Loignac read, 
“ Perducas de Pincornay, 26 October, 1585, at noon precisely. 
Porte St. Antoine.” 

“ Very good ; it is all right,” said he, “ enter. Now for you,” 
said he to the second. 

The man with the cuirass advanced. 

“ Your card ?” said De Loignac. 

“ What ! M. de Loignac, do you not know the son of your old 
friend, whom you have danced twenty times on your knee ?” 

“ No.” 

“ I am Pertinax de Montcrabeau,” replied the young man, 
with astonishment. “ Do you not know me now ?” 

“ When I am on service, I know no one. Your card, mon- 
sieur ?” 

He held it out. “ All right ! pass,” said De Loignac 

The third now approached, whose card was demanded in the 
same terms. The man plunged his hand into a little goat-skin 
pouch which he wore, but in vain ; he was so embarrassed by 
the child in his arms, that he could not find it. 

“ What the devil are you doing with that child ?” asked De 
Loignac. 

“ He is my son, monsieur.” 

“Well, put your son down. You are married, then?” 

“Yes. monsieur.” 


THE EXAMINATION, 


ii 


cc At twenty ?' 

“ They marry young among us ; you ought to know that, M. 
de Loignae, who were married at eighteen/’ 

“ Oh !” thought De Loignae, “ here is another who knows 
me.” 

“ And why should he not be married ?” cried the woman, ad- 
vancing. “ Yes, monsieur, he is married, and here are two 
other children who call him father, besides this great lad be- 
hind. Advance, Militor, and bow to M. de Loignae/’ 

A lad of sixteen, vigorous and agile, with an incipient mous- 
tache, stepped forward. 

“ They are my wife’s sons, monsieur.” 

“ In Heaven’s name, your card !” cried De Loignae. 

“ Lardille !” cried the Gascon to his wife, “ come and help 
me.” 

Lardille searched the pouch and pockets of her husband, but 
uselessly. “ We must have lost it !” she cried. 

“ Then I arrest you.” 

The man turned pale, but said, “ I am Eustace de Miran- 
doux, and M. de St. M aline is my patron.” 

“ Oh !” said De Loignae, a little mollified at this name, “ well, 
search again.” 

They turned to their pockets again, and began to re-examine 
them. 

“ Why, what do I see there, on the sleeve of that blockhead ?” 
said De Loignae. 

“ Yes, yes !” cried the father. “ I remember, now, Lardille 
sewed it on.” 

“ That you might carry something, I suppose, you great lazy 
fellow.” 

The card was looked at and found all right, and the family 
passed on in the same order as before. 

The fourth man advanced and gave his name as Chalabre. 
It was found correct, and he also entered. 

Then came M. de Carmainges. He got off his horse and 
presented his card, while the page hid his face by pretending to 
adjust the saddle. 

“ The page belongs to you ?” asked De Loignae. 

“ You see, he is attending to my horse.” 

“ Pass, then.” 

“ Quick, my master,” said the page. 

Behind these men the door was closed, much to the discon- 


12 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


tent of the crowd. Robert Briquet, meanwhile, had drawn 
near to the porter’s lodge, which had two windows, one looking 
towards Paris, and the other into the country. From this post 
he saw a man, who, coming from Paris at full gallop, entered 
the lodge and said, “ Here I am, M. de Loignac.” 

“ Good. Where do you come from ?” 

“ From the Porte St. Victor.” 

“ Your number ?” 

“ Five.” 

“ The cards ?” 

“ Here they are.” 

De Loignac took them, examined them, and wrote on a 
slate the number five. The messenger left, and two others ap- 
peared, almost immediately. One came from the Porte Bour- 
delle, and brought the number four, the other from the Porte 
du Temple, and announced six. Then came four others. The 
first from the Porte St. Denis, with the number five ; the next 
from the Porte St. Jacques, with the number three ; the third 
from the Porte St. Honore, with the number eight ; and the 
fourth from the Porte Montmartre, with the number four. 
Lastly came a messenger, from the Porte Bussy, who announced 
four. De Loignac wrote all these down, added them to those 
who had entered the Porte St. Antoine, and found the total 
number to be forty-five. 

‘‘Good !” said he. “ Now open the gates, and all may enter.” 

The gates were thrown open, and then horses, mules, and 
carts, men, women, and children, pressed into Paris, at the risk 
of suffocating each other, and in a quarter of an hour all the 
crowd had vanished. 

Robert Briquet remained until the last. “ I have seen 
enough,” said he ; “ would it be very advantageous to me to 
see M. Salcede torn in four pieces ? No, pardieu ! Besides, I 
have renounced politics ; I will go and dine.” 


CHAPTER IV. 

HIS MAJESTY HENRI THE THIRD. 

M. Friard was right when he talked of 100,000 persons as the 
number of spectators who would meet on the Place de Greve 
and its environs, to witness the execution of Salcede. All Paris 
appeared to have a rendezvous at the Hotel de Ville ; and Paris 


HIS MAJESTY HENRI THE THIRD. 13 

is very exact, and never misses a fete ; and the death of a man 
is a fete, especially when he has raised so many passions that 
some curse and others bless him. 

The spectators who succeeded in reaching the Place saw the 
archers and a large number of Swiss and light horse surrounding 
a little scaffold raised about four feet from the ground. It was 
so low as to be visible only to those immediately surrounding it, 
or to those who had windows overlooking the Place. Four 
vigorous white horses beat the ground impatiently with their 
hoofs, to the great terror of the women, who had either chosen 
this place willingly, or had been forcibly pushed there. 

These horses were unused, and had never done more work 
than to support, by some chance, on their broad backs the 
chubby children cf the peasants. After the scaffold and the 
horses, what next attracted all looks was the principal window of 
the Hotel de Ville, which was hung with red velvet and gold, 
and ornamented with the royal arms. This was for the king. 
Half-past one had just struck when this window was filled. 
First came Henri III., pale, almost bald, although he was 
at that time only thirty-five, and vith a sombre expression, 
always a mystery to his subjects, who, when they saw him ap- 
pear, never knew whether to say “ Vive le Roi !” or to pray for 
his soul He was dressed in black, without jewels or orders, 
and a single diamond shone in his cap, serving as a fastening to 
three short plumes. He carried in his hand a little black dog 
that his sister-in-law Marie Stuart had sent him from her prison, 
and on which his fingers looked as white as alabaster. 

Behind the king came Catherine de Medicis, almost bowed 
by age, for she might be sixty-six or sixty-seven, but still carry- 
ing her head firm and erect, and darting bitter glances from 
under her thick eyebrows. At her side appeared the melan- 
choly but sweet face of the queen, Louise de Torraine. Cathe- 
rine came as a triumph, she as a punishment. Behind them 
came two handsome young men, brothers, the eldest of whom 
smiled with wonderful beauty, and the younger with great 
melancholy. The one was Anne, Due de Joyeuse, and the 
other Henri de Joyeuse, Comte de Bouehage. The people had 
for these favourites of the king none of the hatred which they 
had felt towards Maugiron, Quelus, arid Schomberg. 

Henri saluted the people gravely ; then, turning to the young 
men, he said, “ Anne, lean against the tapestry ; it may last a 
long time.” 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN, 


U 

“ I hope so,” said Catherine. 

“ You think then, that Salcede will speak, mother ?” 

“ God will, I trust, give this confusion to our enemies.” 

Henri looked doubtful. 

“My son,” said Catherine, “do I not see some tumult 
yonder ?” 

“ What clear sight you have ! I believe you are right. I have 
such bad eyes, and yet I am not old. Yes, here comes Salcede.” 

“ He fears,” said Catherine ; “ he will speak.” 

“ If he has strength,” said the king. “ See, his head falls 
about like that of a corpse.” 

“He is frightful,” said Joyeuse. 

“ How should a man be handsome whose thoughts are so 
ugly? Have I not explained to you, Anne, the secret connec- 
tion of the physical and the moral, as Hippocrates and Galen 
understood and expounded them ?” 

“ I admit it, sire, but I am not a good pupil. I have some- 
times seen very ugly men very good soldiers. Have you not, 
Henri ?” said he, turning to his brother ; but he looked without 
seeing, and heard without understanding, so the king answered 
for him. 

“ Eh, mon Dieu ! my dear Anne, who says this man is not 
brave ? He is brave, pardieu, like a wolf, a bear, or a serpent. 
He burned in his house a Norman gentleman, his enemy ; he 
has fought ten duels, and killed three of his adversaries. He 
has now been taken in the act of coining, for which he has been 
condemned to death.” 

“ That is a well-filled existence, but which will soon finish.” 

“ On the contrary,” said Catherine, “ I trust it will finish as 
slowly as possible.” 

“Madame,” said Joyeuse, “I see those four stout horses, 
who appear to me so impatient of their state of inactivity that 
I do not believe in a long resistance of the muscles, tendons, 
and cartilages of M. de Salcede.” 

“ Yes, but my son is merciful,” replied she, with the smile 
peculiar to herself, “and he will tell the men to go gently.” 

“ But, madame,” said the queen timidly, “ 1 heard you say 
this morning that there were only to be two draws ?” 

“Yes, if he conducts himself well; in that case all will be 
finished as soon as possible, and, as you interest yourself so 
much in him, you had better let him know as much, my 
daughter.” 


HIS MAJESTY HENRI THE THIRD . 


15 


“ Madame,” said the queen, “ I have not your strength when 
looking at suffering.” 

“ Do not look, then.” 

The king heard nothing ; he was all eyes. They were lifting 
Salcfcde from the car on to the scaffold, round which the archers 
had cleared a large space, so that it was distinctly visible to all 
eyes. 

Salcede was about thirty-five years of age, strong and vigo- 
rous ; and his pale features, on which stood drops of blood, 
were animated alternately by hope and anguish. He was no 
vulgar assassin ; he was of good birth, and even distantly re- 
lated to the queen, and had been a captain of some renown. 
Those bound hands had valiantly borne the sword, and that 
livid head, on which were depicted the terrors of death, had 
conceived great designs. Therefore, to many of the spectators, 
he was a hero ; to others, a victim ; some looked on him as an 
assassin ; but the crow r d seldom despises those very great 
criminals who are registered in the book of history as well as 
in that of justice. Thus they told, in the crowd, that Salcede 
was of a race of warriors ; that his father had fought against 
the Cardinal de Lorraine, but that the son had joined with the 
Guises to destroy in Flanders the rising power of the Due 
d’Anjou, so hated by the French. 

He had been arrested and conducted to France, and had 
hoped to be rescued by the way ; but unfortunately for him. M. 
de Bellievre had kept such good watch, that neither Spaniards 
nor Lorraines, nor leaguers, had been able to approach. In 
the prison Salcede hoped ; during the torture, on the car, even 
on the scaffold, he still hoped. He wanted neither courage 
nor resignation ; but he was one of those who defend them- 
selves to their last breath. He darted curious glances towards 
the crowd, but constantly turned away, with a look of disap. 
pointment. 

At this moment, an usher, raising the tapestry of the royal 
tent, announced that the president Brisson and four councillors 
desired the honour of an instant’s conversation with the king 
on the subject of the execution. 

“ Good,” said the king. “ Mother, you will be satisfied.” 

“ Sire, a favour,” said Joyeuse. 

‘‘ Speak, Joyeuse ; and provided it be not the pardon of the 
criminal ” 

“Sire, permit my brother and me to retire.” 


1 6 THE FORTY- FIVE GUARDSMEN. 

“ What ! you take so little interest in my affairs that you wish 
to retire at su ha moment !” 

“ Do not say so, sire ; all that concerns your majesty pro- 
foundly interests me ; but I am of a miserable organisation, 
and the weakest woman is stronger than I am on this point. 
I cannot see an execution without being ill for a week ; and 
as I am the only person who ever laughs at the Louvre, since 
my brother — I know not why — has given it up, think what 
would become of the Louvre — so sad already — if I were sad 
also.” 

“ You wish to leave me then, Anne ?” 

“ Peste ! sire, you are exacting ; an execution is a spectacle 
of which, unlike me, you are fond. Is not that enough for 
you, or must you also enjoy the weakness of your friends ?” 

“If you will remain, Joyeuse, you will see that it is inter- 
esting.” 

“ I do not doubt it, sire ; I only think that the interest will 
be carried to a point that I cannot bear ;” and he turned to- 
wards the door. 

“ Go, then,” said Henri, sighing ; “ my destiny is to live 
alone.” 

“ Quick ! Du Bouchage,” said Anne to his brother. “ The 
king says yes now ; but in five minutes he will say no.” 

“ Thanks, my brother,” said Bouchage ; “ I was as anxious as 
you to get away.” 


CHAPTER V. 

THE EXECUTION. 

The councillors entered. 

“ Well, gentlemen,” said the king, “ is there anything new ?” 

“ Sire,” replied the president, “ we come to beg your majesty 
to promise life to the criminal ; he has revelations to make, 
which, on this promise, we shall obtain.” 

“ But have we not obtained them ?” 

“ Yes, in part ; is that enough for your majesty ?” 

“No,” said Catherine; “and the king has determined to 
postpone the execution, if the culprit will sign a confession sub- 
stantiating his depositions before the judge.” 

“Yes,” said Henri, “and you can let the prisoner know 
this.” 


THE EXECUTION. 


17 


“ Your majesty has nothing to add ?” 

“Only that there must be no variation in the confessions, or 
I withdraw my promise ; they must be complete.” 

“ Yes, sire ; with the names of the compromised parties.” 

“With all the names.” 

“ Even if they are of high rank?” 

“ If they were those of my nearest relations.” 

“ It shall be as your majesty wishes.” 

“ No misunderstanding, M. Brisson. Writing materials shall 
be brought to the prisoner, and he will write his confessions ; 
after that we shall see.” 

“ But I may promise ?” 

“Oh ! yes, promise.” 

M. Brisson and the councillors withdrew. 

“ He will speak, sire,” said the queen; “and your majesty 
will pardon him. See the foam on his lips.” 

“ No,” said Catherine ; “ he is seeking something. What is 
it?” 

“ Parbleu !” said Henri ; “ he seeks M. le Due de Guise, 
M. le Due de Parma, and my brother, the very Catholic king. 
Yes, seek, wait ; do you believe that there is more chance of 
rescue on the Place de Greve than on the route from Flan- 
ders ?” 

Salcede had seen the archers sent off for the horses, and he 
understood that the order for punishment was about to be given, 
and it was then that he bit his lips till they were covered with 
blood, as the queen had remarked. 

“No one,” murmured he ; “ not one of those who had pro- 
mised me help. Cowards ! cowards !” 

The horses were now seen making their way through the crowd, 
and creating everywhere an opening which closed immediately 
behind them. As they passed the corner of the Rue St. Vannerie, 
a handsome young man, whom we have seen before, was pushed 
forward impatiently by a young lad, apparently about seventeen. 
It was the Vicomte Ernanton de Carmainges and the mysterious 
page. 

“ Quick !” cried the page ; “ throw yourself into the opening, 
there is not a moment to lose.” 

“ But we shall be stifled ; you are mad, my little friend.” 

“ I must be near,” cried the page, imperiously. “ Keep close 
to the horses, or we shall never arrive there.” 

“ But before we get there, you will be torn to pieces.” 

2 


18 THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN . 

“ Never mind me, only go on.” 

“The horses will kick” 

“ Take hold of the tail of the last ; a horse never kicks when 
you hold him so.” 

Ernanton gave way in spite of himself to the mysterious 
influence of this lad, and seized the tail of the horse, while the 
page clung to him. And thus, through the crowd, waving like 
the sea, leaving here a piece of a cloak, and there a fragment of 
a doublet, they arrived with the horses at a few steps from the 
scaffold. 

“ Have we arrived ?” asked the young man, panting. 

“ Yes, happily !” answered Ernanton, “ for I am exhausted.” 

“ I cannot see.” 

“ Come before me.” 

“ Oh, no ! not yet. What are they doing ?” 

“ Making slip knots at the ends of the cords.” 

“ And he — what is he doing ?” 

“ Who ?” 

“ The condemned.” 

“ JTis eyes turn incessantly from side to side.” 

The horses w r ere near enough to enable the executioner to tie 
the feet and hands of the criminal to the harness. Salcede 
uttered a cry when he felt the cord in contact with his flesh. 

“Monsieur,” said the lieutenant Tanchon, to him politely, 
“ will it please you to address the people ?” and added in a 
whisper, “ a confession will save your life.” 

Salcede looked earnestly at him, as though to read the truth 
in his eyes. 

“ You see,” continued Tanchon, “ they abandon you. There 
is no other hope in the world but what I offer you.” 

“ Well !” said Salcede, with a sigh, “I am ready to speak.” 

“ It is a written and signed confession that the king exacts.” 

“ Then untie my hands, and give me a pen and I will write 
it.” 

They loosened the cords from his wrists, and an usher who 
stood near with writing materials placed them before him on 
the scaffold. 

“Now,” said Tanchon, “state everything.” 

“ Do not fear; I will not forget those who have forgotten me;” 
but as he spoke, he cast another glance around. 

While this was passing, the page, seizing the hand of Ernan- 
ton, cried, “ Monsieur, take me in your arms, I beg you, and 


THE EXECUTION’. 


19 


raise me above the heads of the people who prevent me from 
seeing.” 

“ Ah ! you are insatiable, young man.” 

“ This one more service ; I must see the condemned, indeed 
I must.” 

Then, as Ernanton still hesitated, he cried, “ For pity’s sake, 
monsieur, I intreat you.” 

Ernanton raised him in his arms at this last appeal, and was 
somewhat astonished at the delicacy of the body he held. Just 
as Salcede had taken the pen, and looked round as we have 
said, he saw this young lad above the crowd, with two fingers 
placed on his lips. An indescribable joy spread itself instan- 
taneously over the face of the condemned man, for he recog- 
nised the signal so impatiently waited for, and which announced 
that aid was near. After a moment’s hesitation, however, he 
took the paper and began to write. 

“ He writes !” cried the crowd. 

“ He writes !” exclaimed Catherine. 

“ He writes !” cried the king, “ and I will pardon him.” 

Suddenly Salcede stopped and looked again at the lad, who 
repeated the signal. He wrote on, then stopped to look once 
more ; the signal was again repeated. 

“ Have you finished ?” asked Tanchon. 

“ Yes.” 

‘ Then sign.” 

Salcede signed, wfith his eyes still fixed on the young man. 

“ For the king alone,” said he, and he gave the paper to the 
usher, though with hesitation. 

“ If you have disclosed all,” said Tanchon, “ you are safe.” 

A strange smile strayed over the lips of Salcede. Ernanton, 
who was fatigued, wished now to put down the page, who made 
no opposition. With him disappeared all that had sustained 
the unfortunate man ; he looked round wildly and cried : 

“ Well, come !” 

No one answered. 

“ Quick ! quick ! the king hoids the paper ; he is reading !” 

Still there was no response. 

The king unfolded the paper. 

“ Thousand devils !” cried Salcede, “ if they have deceived 
me ! Yet it w r as she — it w^as really she !” 

No sooner had the king read the first lines, than he called out 
indignantly, “ Oh ! the w r retch !” 


2 — 2 


20 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN 


“ What is it, my son ?” 

“He retracts all — he pretends that he confessed nothing; 
and he declares that the Guises are innocent of any plot !” 

“ But,’’ said Catherine, “ if it be true ?” 

“ He lies !” cried the king. 

“ How do you know, my son ? Perhaps the Guises have been 
calumniated ; the judges, in their zeal, may have put a false in- 
terpretation on the depositions/’ 

“ Oh ! no, madame ; I heard them myself cried Henri. 

“You, my son?” 

“Yes, I !” 

“ How so ?” 

‘ When the criminal was questioned, I was behind a curtain 
and heard all he said.” 

“ Well, then, if he will have it, order the horses to pull.” 

Henri, in anger, gave the sign. It was repeated, the cords 
were refastened, four men jumped on the horses, which, urged 
by violent blows, started off in opposite directions. A horrible 
cracking, and a terrible cry was hejtvd. The blood was seen to 
spout from the limbs of the unhappy man, whose face was no 
longer that of a man but of a demon. 

“ Ah, heaven !” he cried ; “ I will speak, I will tell all. Ah 1 
cursed duch ” 

The voice had been heard above everything, but suddenly it 
ceased. 

“ Stop, stop,” cried Catherine, “ let him speak.” 

But it was too late ; the head of Salcede fell helplessly on 
one side, he glanced once more to where he had seen the page, 
and then expired. Tanchon gave some rapid orders to his 
archers, who plunged into the crowd in the direction indicated 
by Salcede’s glance. 

“ I am discovered !” said the page to Ernanton. “ For pity’s 
sake, aid me ! they come, they come !” 

“ What do you want ?” 

“ To fly ! Do you not see that it is me they want ?” 

“But who are you, then ?” 

“ A woman. Oh, save me ! protect me !” 

Ernanton turned pale ; but generosity triumphed over fear. 
He placed his protegee before him, opened a path with blows, 
and pushed her towards the corner of the Rue du Mouton, to* 
wards an open door. Into this door she entered ; and she 
seemed to have been exDected, for it closed behind her. Er- 


THE EXECUTION. 


nanton had not even time to ask her name, or where he should 
find her again ; but in disappearing she had made a sign full of 
promise. 

Meanwhile, Catherine was standing up in her place, full of rage. 

“ My son, 1 ’ said she at last, “ you would do well to change 
your executioner ; he is a leaguer.” 

“ What do you mean, mother ?” 

“Salcede suffered only one draw’, and he is dead.” 

u .Because he was too sensible to pain.” 

“ No ; but because he has been strangled with a fine cord 
from underneath the scaffold, just as he was about to accuse 
those who let him die. Let a doctor examine him, and I am 
certain that he will find round his neck the circle that the cord 
has left.” 

‘ You are right !” cried Henri, with flashing eyes ; “my cousin 
of Guise is better served than I am !” 

“ Hush, my son — no eclat ; we shall only be laughed at, for 
once more w r e have missed our aim.” 

“ Joyeuse did well to go and amuse himself elsewhere,” said 
the king; “one can reckon on nothing in this W’orld — not even 
on punishments. Come, ladies, let us go.” 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE BROTHERS. 

MM. de Joyeuse had, as we have seen, left this scene, and 
were walking side by side in the streets generally so populous 
but now deserted, for every one was in the Place de Greve. 
Henri seemed preoccupied and sad, and Anne was unquiet on 
account of his brother. He was the first to speak. 

« Well, Henri,” said he, “ where are you taking me ?” 

“ I take you nowhere, brother; I was only walking before you. 
Do you wish to go anywhere ?” 

“ Do you ?” 

“ Oh ! I do not care w’here I go.” 

“ Yet you go somewhere every evening, for you alw r ays go out 
at the same hour and return late at night. ” 

“ Are you questioning me, brother ?” said Henri, with gentle- 
ness. 

“ Certainly not ; let each keep his owm secrets if he wishes to 
do so.” 


22 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN . 


“ If you wish it, brother, I will have no secrets from you.” 

“ Will you not, Henri ?” 

“ No ; are you not my elder brother and friend ?” 

u Oh ! I thought you had secrets from me, who am only a 
poor layman. I thought you confessed to our learned brother 
that pillar of theology, that light of the Church, who will be a 
cardinal some day, and that you obtained absolution from him, 
and perhaps, at the same time, advice.” 

Henri took his brother’s hand affectionately. “ You are more 
than a confessor to me, my dear Anne — more than a father ; 
you are my friend.” 

“ Then, my friend, why, from so gay as you used to be, have 
I seen you become sad ? and why, instead of going out by day, 
do you only go out at night ?” 

“ My brother, I am not sad.” 

“ What, then ?” 

“ In love.” 

“ Good ! And this preoccupation ?” 

“ Is because I am always thinking of my love.” 

“ And you sigh in saying that ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ You sigh ? — you, Henri, Comte du Bouchage ? — you, the 
brother of Joyeuse? — you, whom some people call the third 
king in France ? You know M. de Guise is the second, if not 
the first ; but you, rich and handsome, who will be peer and 
duke on the first occasion, are in love, and you sigh ! — you, 
whose device is ‘ hilariter.’ ” 

“ My dear Anne, I have never reckoned the gifts of fortune, 
past and to come, as things to constitute happiness ; I have no 
ambitions.” 

“ That is to say, you have not at present.” 

“At all events, not for the things you speak of.” 

“ Not just now, perhaps, but later you will return to them.” 

“ Never, brother ; I desire nothing — I want nothing.” 

“ You are wrong. When one is called ‘Joyeuse,’ one of the 
best names in France, when one has a brother a king’s favourite, 
one desires everything, ar.d has everything.” 

Henri hung his blond head sadly. 

“ Come,” continued Anne, “ we are quite alone here ; have 
you anything to tell me ?” 

“ Nothing, but that I love.” 

“ Diable ! that is not a very serious affair ; I also am in love.” 


THE BROTHERS. 


*3 

14 Not like me, brother.” 

tl I, also, think sometimes of my mistress.” 

“ Yes, but not always.” 

“ I, also, have annoyances.” 

“ Yes ; but you also have joys, for you are loved.” 

“ True ; but I have obstacles. They exact from me so much 
mystery.” 

“They exact ! If your mistress exacts, she loves you.” 

“ Yes, she loves me and M. de Mayenne — or rather only me, 
for she would give up Mayenne at once if she was not afraid he 
would kill her ; it is his habit to kill women, you know. I am 
obliged to be constantly on my guard, but I do not grow sad 
on that account ; I continue to laugh — at least, sometimes. Tell 
me, Henri, is your lady beautiful ?” 

“ Alas ! she is not mine.” 

“ Is she beautiful ? Her name ?” 

“ I do not know it.” 

“ Come, now.” 

“ On my honour.” 

“ My friend, I begin to think it is more dangerous than I 
thought ; it is not sadness, but madness.” 

“ She never spoke but once before me, and since then I have 
not heard the sound of her voice.” 

“ And you have not inquired about her ?” 

“ Of whom ?” 

“Why, of the neighbours.” 

“ She lives in her own house, and no one knows her.” 

“ Ah ! 5a ! then she is a ghost !” 

“ She is a woman, tall and beautiful as a nymph, serious and 
grave as the angel Gabriel !” 

“ When did you meet her ?” 

“ One day I followed a young girl to the church of La Gype- 
cienne, and I entered a little garden close to it, where there is 
a stone seat under some trees. Do you know this garden, 
Anne ?” 

“ No ; but never mind — go on.” 

“ It began to grow dark ; I had lost sight of the young girl, 
and in seeking her I arrived at this seat. I saw a woman’s dress, 
and held out my hands. ‘ Pardon, monsieur,’ said the voice of 
a man whom I had not noticed, and he gently but firmly pushed 
me away.” 

" He dared to touch you, Henri ?” 


24 THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 

“ Listen ; he had his face hidden in a sort of frock, and I 
took him for a monk. Besides, he impressed me also bv the 
polite manner of his warning; for, as he spoke, he pointed out 
to me the woman, whose white dress had attracted me, and who 
was kneeling before the seat as though it were an altar. It was 
towards the beginning of September that this happened ; the 
air was warm, the flowers planted by friends around the tombs 
scattered their delicate perfume, and the moon, rising above the 
white clouds, began to shed her silver light over all. Whether it 
were the place, or her own dignity, I know not, but this woman 
seemed to me like a marble statue, and impressed me with a 
strange respect. I looked at her earnestly. She bent over the 
seat, enveloping it in her arms, placed her lips to it, and soon I 
saw her shoulders heave with such sobs as you never heard, my 
brother. As she wept she kissed the stone with ardour ; her 
tears had troubled me, but her kisses maddened me.” 

“ But, by the pope, it is she who is mad, to kiss a stone and 
cob for nothing.” 

“ Oh ! it was a great grief that made her sob, a profound love 
which made her kiss the stone. Only whom did she love ? 
whom did she weep for ? whom did she pray for ? I know 
not.” 

“ Did you not question this man ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ What did he reply ?” 

“ That she had lost her husband.” 

“Bah ! as if people weep like that for a husband. Were you 
content with such an answer ?” 

“ I was obliged to be content, for he would give me no 
other.” 

“ But the man — what is he ?” 

“ A sort of servant who lives with her.” 

“ His name ?” 

“ He would not tell me.” 

“ Young or old ?” 

“ He might be about thirty. 

“ Well, afterwards ? She did not stop all night praying and 
weeping, did she ?” 

“ No ; when she had exhausted her tears she rose, and there 
was so much mystery and sadness about her that, instead of 
advancing to her as I might have done to another, I drew back ; 
but she turned towards me, though she did not see me, and 


THE BROTHERS. 


25 


the moon shone on her face, which was calm and sad, and 
the traces of her tears were still on her cheeks ; she moved 
slowly, and the servant went to support her. But, oh ! my 
brother, what dreadful, what superhuman beauty. I have 
never seen anything like it on earth, only sometimes in my 
dreams.” 

“ Well, Henri ?” said Anne, interested, in spite of himself, 
at a recital at which he had determined to laugh. 

“ Oh ! it is nearly finished, brother. Her servant whispered 
something to her, and she lowered her veil ; doubtless he told 
her I was there, but she did not glance towards me. I saw her 
no more, and it seemed to me, when the veil concealed her 
face, as if the sky had become suddenly overshadowed — that 
it was no longer a living thing, but a shade escaped from the 
tomb, which was gliding silently before me. She went out of 
the garden, and I followed her ; from time to time the man 
turned and saw me, for I did not hide myself ; I had still the 
old habits in my mind — the old leaven in my heart.” 

“ What do you mean, Henri ?” 

The young man smiled. “ I mean, brother,” said he, “ that 
I have often thought I loved before, and that all women, until 
now, have been for me — women to whom I might offer my 
love.” 

“ Oh ! and what is this one ?” said Anne, trying to recover 
his gaiety, which, in spite of himself, had been a little disturbed 
by his brother’s confidence. 

“ My brother,” said Henri, seizing his hand in a fervent grasp, 
“ as truly as I live, I know not if she be a creature of this 
world or not.” 

“ Holy Fathers ! you would make me afraid, if a Joyeuse 
could know fear. However, as she walks, weeps, and gives 
kisses, it seems to me to augur well. But finish.” 

“ There is little more. I followed her, and she did not 
try to escape or lead me astray ; she never seemed to think 
of it.” 

“ Well, and where does she live ?” 

“ By the side of the Bastille, Rue de Lesdiguieres. At the 
door, the servant turned and saw me.” 

“You asked to speak to him ?” 

“ You will think it ridiculous, but I dared not.” 

“You entered the house, then ?” 

“No, brother.” 


26 THE FORTY- FIVE GUARDSMEN. 

“ Really, Henri, I am tempted to disown you this evening. 
But you returned the next day ?” 

“ Yes, but uselessly, and equally so to La Gypecienne.” 

, “ She had disappeared ?” 

“ Like a shadow.’’ 

“ But you inquired.” 

“ The street has few inhabitants, and no one knew her. I 
watched for the servant, but he also had disappeared ; however, 
a light which shone every evening through the Venetian blinds 
consoled me by the knowledge that she was still there. At last 
this disappeared ; she had quitted the Rue de Lesdiguieres, 
and no one knew where she had gone.” 

“ But you found her again ?” 

“ Chance did it. Listen ; it is really strange. I was going 
along the Rue de Bussy, a fortnight ago, about midnight ; you 
know how strict the regulations are about fire ; well, I saw, not 
only light in the windows of a house, but a real fire, which had 
broken out in the second story. I knocked at the door, and a 
man appeared at the window. ‘ You have fire in your house !’ 
I cried. ‘Silence! I beg; I am occupied in putting it out.’ 
‘Shall I call the watch?’ I asked. ‘No ! in Heaven’s name, 
call no one !’ ‘ But can I help you ?’ ‘ Will you ? I shall 

be very grateful,’ and he threw me the key out of the window. 

“ I mounted the stairs rapidly, and entered the room where 
the fire was burning ; it was used as a chemist’s laboratory, 
and in making I know not what experiments, an inflammable 
liquid had been spilled, which had ignited the floor. When 
I entered, the fire was almost got under. I looked at the man ; 
a dreadful scar disfigured his cheek, and another his forehead ; 
the rest of his face was hidden by a thick beard. ‘ I thank you, 
monsieur,’ said he ; ‘ but you see all is finished now ; if you are 
as gallant a man as you seem, have the goodness to retire, for 
my mistress may return at any moment, and will be angry if she 
sees a stranger here.’ 

“ The sound of his voice struck me instantly. I was about 
to cry, ‘ You are the man of La Gypecienne — of the Rue de 
Lesdiguieres !’ for you remember that I had not seen his face 
before, but only heard his voice, when suddenly a door opened, 
and a woman entered. ‘ What is the matter, Remy, and why 
this noise ?’ she asked. Oh ! my brother, it was she ! more 
beautiful than ever, by the dying light of the fire. It was she ! 
— the woman whose memory had ever lived in my heart. At 


THE BROTHERS. 


27 


the cry which I uttered the servant looked narrowly at me. 
‘ Thanks, monsieur,’ said he again ; ‘ you see the fire is out ; go, 
I beg of you.’ 

‘“My friend/ said I, ‘you dismiss me very rudely.’ ‘Ma- 
dame/ said he, ‘it is he.’ ‘ Who?’ ‘ The young man we met 
in the garden, and who followed us home.’ She turned towards 
me and said, ‘ Monsieur, I beg of you to go.’ I hesitated ; I 
wished to speak, but my words failed me. I remained motion- 
less and mute, gazing at her. ‘ Take care, monsieur,’ said the 
servant, sadly; ‘you wi 1 force her to fly again.’ ‘Heaven for- 
bid !’ cried I ; ‘but how do I offend you, madame?’ She did not 
reply ; insensible, mute, and cold, as though she had not heard 
me, she turned, and I saw her disappear gradually in the shade.” 

“ And is that all ?” 

“ All ; the servant led me to the door, saying, ‘ Forget, mon- 
sieur, I beg of you.’ 1 fled, bewildered and half crazy, and since 
then I have gone every evening to this street, and, concealed in 
the angle of the opposite house, under the shade of a little bal- 
cony, I see, once in ten times, a light in her room ; that ‘ is my 
life, my happiness.” 

“ What happiness !” 

“ Alas ! I should lose this, if I tried for more.” 

“ But in acting thus, you lose all the amusements of the 
world.” 

“ My brother,” said Henri, with a sad smile, “ I am happy 
thus.” 

“ Not so, mordieu ! One monk in a family is enough.” 

“No railleries, brother.” 

“ But let me say one thing !” 

“What is it?” 

“ That you have been taken in like a schoolboy.” 

“ I am not taken in ; I o fly gave way to a power stronger 
than mine. When a current carries you away, you cannot fight 
against it.” 

“ But if it lead to an abyss ?” 

“ You must be swallowed up !” 

“ Do you think so ?” 

“ Yes !” 

“ I do not ; and in your place ” 

“ What would you have done ?” 

“ Enough, certainly, to have learned her name and ? 

“Anne you don’t know her.” 


28 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


“ No, but I know you, Henri You had 50,000 crowns that 
I gave you out of the last 100,000 the king gave to me.” 

“ They are still in my chest, Anne ; I have not touched one 
of them.” 

“ Mordieu ! If they were not there, you would be in a dif- 
ferent position.” 

“ Oh ! my brother !” 

“Certainly. An ordinary servant may be bought for ten 
crowns, a good one for 100, an excellent one for 1,000, and a 
marvel for 3,000. Let us see, then. Suppose this man to be 
the phoenix of all servants — the beau ideal of fidelity, yet, by 
the Pope ! for 20,000 crowns you will buy him. There would 
then remain 30,000 crowns for the phoenix of women, and all 
would be settled.” 

“ Anne !” sighed Henri, “ there are people who cannot be 
bought ; there are hearts that the king is not rich enough to 
purchase.” 

“ Well ! perhaps so ; but hearts are sometimes given. What 
have you done to win that of the beautiful statue ?” 

“ I believe, Anne, that I have done all I could.” 

“Really, Comte du Bouchage, you are mad. You see a 
woman, sad, solitary, and melancholy, and you become more 
sad, more recluse, and more melancholy than she. She is alone 
— keep her company ; she is sad — be gay ; she regrets — console 
her, and replace him she regrets.” 

“ Impossible ! brother.” 

“ Have you tried ? Are you in love, or are you not ?” 

“ I have no words to express how much !” 

“ Well ! I see no reason to despair.” 

“ I have no hope.” 

“ At what time do you see her ?” 

“ I have told you that I do not see her.” 

“ Never ?” 

« Never !” 

“ Not even at her window ?” 

“ Not even at her window !” 

“We must put an end to that. Do you think she has a 
lover ?” 

“ I have never seen any one enter her house, except the Rdmy 
of whom I spoke to you.” 

“Take the house opposite.” 

“ It may not be to let.” 


THE BROTHERS. 


29 


“ Bah ! offer double the rent !” 

u But if she sees me there, she will disappear as before.” 

“ You shall see her this evening.” 

“ I !” 

“ Yes ! Be under her balcony at eight o’clock.” 

“ I am always there.” 

“Well, give me the address.” 

“ Between the Porte Bussy and the Hotel St. Denis, near 
the corner of the Rue des Augustins, and a few steps from a 
large inn, having for a sign, ‘ The Sword of the Brave Che- 
valier.’ ” 

“ Very well, then ; this evening at eight o’clock.” 

“ But what do you intend to do ?” 

“ You shall see : meanwhile, go home ; put on your richest 
dress, and use vour finest perfume, and I hope that you will 
enter the house to-night.” 

“May you be a true prophet, brother !” 

“ Weil ! I leave you for the present, for my lady-love waits for 
me ; and I confess, that after your account, I prefer her to 
yours. Adieu ! Henri, tiil the evening.” 

The brothers then pressed each other’s hands, and separated. 


CHAPTER VII. 

“the sword of the brave chevalier.” 

During the conversation we have just related, night had begun 
to fall, enveloping the city with its damp mantle of fog. 

Salcede dead, all the spectators were ready to leave the Place 
de Greve, and the streets were filled with people, hurrying to- 
wards their homes. Near the Porte Bussy, where we must now 
transport our readers, to follow some of their acquaintances, and 
to make new ones, a hum, like that in a bee-hive at sunset, was 
heard proceeding from a house tinted rose colour, and orna- 
mented with blue and white pointings, which was known by 
the sign of “ The Sword of the Brave Chevalier,” and which was 
an immense inn, recently built in this new quarter. This house 
was decorated to suit all tastes. On the entablature was painted 
a representation of a combat between an archangel and a dragon 
breathing flame and smoke, and in which the artist, animated by 
sentiments at once heroic and pious, had depicted in the hands 
of “ the brave chevalier.” not a sword, but an immense cross, 


30 


THE FORTY- FIVE GUARDSMEN . 


with which he hacked in pieces the unlucky dragon, of which 
the bleeding pieces were seen lying on the ground. At the 
bottom of the picture crowds of spectators were represented 
raising their arms to heaven, while from above, angels were 
extending over the chevalier laurels and palms. Then, as if to 
prove that he could paint in every style, the artist had grouped 
around gourds, grapes, a snail on a rose, and two rabbits, one 
white and the other gray. 

Assuredly the proprietor must have been aifficult to please, if 
he were not satisfied, for the artist had filled every inch of space 
- — there was scarcely room to have added a caterpillar. In spite, 
however, of this attractive exterior, the hotel did not prosper — 
it was never more than half full, though it was large and com- 
fortable. Unfortunately, from its proximity to the Pre-aux-Clercs, 
it was frequented by so many persons either going or ready to 
fight, that those more peaceably disposed avoided it. Indeed, 
the cupids with which the interior was decorated had been 
ornamented with moustaches in charcoal by the habitues ; and 
Dame Fournichon, the landlady, always affirmed that the sign 
had brought them ill-luck, and that had her wishes been attended 
to, and the painting represented more pleasing things, such as 
the rose-tree of love surrounded by flaming hearts, all tender 
couples would have flocked to them. 

M. Fournichon, however, stuck to his sign, and replied that 
he preferred fighting men, and that one of them drank as much 
as six lovers. 

About a month before the execution of Salcede, the host 
and hostess, all of whose rooms were then empty, were looking 
out of the window, sadly, and were watching the exercises of 
some soldiery on the Pre-aux-Clercs, when they saw an officer, 
followed by a single soldier, advancing towards their hotel. He 
was about to pass, when the host called out loudly — 

“ Oh ! wife, what a beautiful horse !” 

Madame Fournichon replied in an equally audible voice, 
“ And what a handsome cavalier !” 

The officer, who did not appear insensible to flattery, raised 
his head and looked first at the host and hostess and then at 
the hotel. Fournichon ran rapidly downstairs and appeared at 
the door. 

“Is the house empty?” asked the officer. 

“ Yes, monsieur; just at present,” replied the host, humiliated; 
“ but it is not usually so.” 


“ THE SWORD OF THE BRAVE CHEVALIER .” 31 

However, Dame Fournichon, like most women, was more 
clear-sighted than her husband, and called out, “ If monsieur 
desires solitude, he will find it here.” 

“ Yes, my good woman, that is what I desire, at present,” 
said the officer, who dismounted, threw the bridle to the soldier, 
and entered the hotel. 

He was a man of about thirty-five years of age, but he did 
not look more than twenty-eight, so carefully was he dressed. 
He was tall, with a fine countenance and a distinguished air. 

“ Ah ! good !” said he, “ a large room and not a single guest. 
But there must be something,” he added, “ either in your house 
or conduct that keeps people away.” 

“Neither, monsieur,” replied Madame Fournichon; “only 
the place is new, and we choose our customers.” 

“ Oh ! very well.” 

“ For example,” continued she, “ for a person like your lord 
ship, we would send away a dozen.” 

“ Thanks, my kind hostess.” 

“ Will monsieur taste the wine ?” asked M. Fournichon. 

“ Will monsieur visit the rooms?” added his wife. 

* Both, if you please.” 

Fournichon descended to the cellar. 

“ How many people can you lodge here ?” asked the captain 
of the hostess. 

“ Thirty.” 

“That is not enough.” 

“ Why so, monsieur ?” 

“ I had a project — but we will speak of it no more.” 

“Ah ! monsieur, you will find nothing larger, except the 
Louvre itself.” 

“ Well ,* you can lodge thirty people ?” 

“Yes, doubtless.” 

“ But for a day ?” 

“Oh ! for a day, forty, or even forty-five.” 

“ Without making a commotion outside ?” 

“ We have often eighty soldiers here, on Sundays.” 

“ And no crowd before the house — no spying by the neigh- 
bours ?” 

“ Mon Dieu ! no ! our nearest neighbours are a worthy bour- 
geois, who meddles with no one, and a lady who lives so re- 
tired, that although she has been here for three weeks, I have 
not seen her.” 


32 


THE FORTY-HVE GUARDSMEN. 


“ That will do excellently.” 

“ So much the better.” 

“ And in a month from to-day ” 

“ That will be the 26th of October.” 

“ Precisely. Well, on that day I hire your inn.” 

“ The whole of it ?” 

“ Yes, the whole. I wish to give a surprise to some country- 
men, officers — or at least — soldiers : they will be told to come 
here.” 

“ But if it be a surprise ” 

“ Oh ! if you are curious, or indiscreet ” 

“No, no, monsieur,” cried she. 

M. Fournichon, who had heard what had passed, added, “Mon- 
sieur, you shall be master here ; and all your friends will be 
welcome.” 

“ I did not say my friends, I said countrymen,” replied the 
officer, haughtily. 

“Yes, monsieur, it was my mistake.” 

“You will give them supper.” 

“ Certainly.” 

“ If necessary, they will sleep here.” 

“ Yes, monsieur.” 

“ In a word, give them all they want, and ask no questions.” 

“Very well, monsieur.” 

“ Here are thirty livres in advance.” 

“ Well, monsieur, these gentlemen shall be treated like 
princes ; will you assure yourself by tasting the wine ?” 

“Thank you, I never drink.” 

“ But, monsieur, how shall I know these gentlemen ?” 

“ That is true ; parfandious ! I forgot. Give me paper, light, 
and wax.” 

When they were brought, the captain made a seal on the 
paper with a ring he had on his finger. “ Do you see this 
figure ?” said he. 

“ A beautiful woman.” 

“ Yes ; a Cleopatra. Well, each of these men will present a 
similar one, on which you will receive him. You will have 
further orders afterwards.” 

The captain then descended the stairs and rode off, leaving 
the Fournichons delighted with their thirty livres in advance. 

“ Decidedly,” said the host, “ the sign has brought us good • 
fortune.” 


THE GASCON. 


33 


CHAPTER VIII. 

THE GASCON. 

We dare not affirm that Dame Eournichon was as discreet as 
she had promised to be, for she interrogated the first soldier 
whom she saw pass, as to the name of the captain who hid 
conducted the review. The soldier, more cautious than s! e, 
asked her why she wished to know. 

“Because he has just been here,” she replied, “and one 
likes to know to whom one has been talking.” 

The soldier laughed. “ The captain who conducted the 
review would not have entered this hotel,” said he. 

“ Why not ; is he too great for that ?” 

“ Perhaps so.” 

“ Well, but it is not for himself that he wanted the hotel” 

“ For whom then ?” 

“ For his friends.” 

“ He would not lodge his friends here, I am sure.” 

“ Peste ! why, who can he be then ?” 

“ Well, my good woman, he who conducted the review is 
simply Monsieur le Due Nogaret de Lavelette d’Epernon, peer 
of France, and colonel-general of infantry. What do you say 
to that ?” 

“ That if it was he, he did me great honour.” 

“ Did you hear him say ‘ parfandious ’ ?” 

“Oh! yes.” 

We may now judge if the 26th of October was impatiently 
expected. On the evening of the 25th a man entered, bearing 
a heavy bag, which he placed on Fournichon’s table. 

“ It is the price of the repast ordered for to-morrow,” said he. 

“ At how much a head ?” 

“At six livres.” 

1 ‘ Will they have only one meal here ?” 

“That is all” 

“ Has the captain found them a lodging, then ?” 

“ It appears so,” said the messenger, who went, and declined 
to answer any more questions. 

3 


54 


7 HE FORTY -FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


At last the much-desired day arrived ; half-past twelve had 
just struck when some cavaliers stopped at the door of the 
hotel. One, who appeared to be their chief, came with two 
well-mounted lacqueys. Each of them produced the seal of 
Cleopatra’s head, and were received with all sorts of courtesies, 
especially the young man with the lacqueys. Nevertheless, ex- 
cepting this young man, they all seemed timid and preoccupied. 
Most of them dispersed, however, until supper-time, either to 
swell the crowd at the execution of Salcede, or to see Paris. 

About two o’clock, others began to arrive. One man came 
in alone, without a hat, a cane in his hand, and swearing at 
Paris, where he said the thieves were so adroit hat they had 
stolen his hat as he had passed through a crowd, without his 
being able to see who had taken it. However, he said, it was 
his own fault, for wearing a hat ornamented with such a superb 
diamond. At four o’clock, forty people had arrived. 

“ Is it not strange,” said Fournichon to his wife, “ they are 
all Gascons ?” 

“ Well, what of that ? The captain said they were all coun- 
trymen, and he is a Gascon. M. d’Epernon is from Toulouse.” 

“ Then you still believe it was M. d’Epernon ?” 

“ Did he not say three times the famous 1 parfandious ’ ?” 

Very soon the five other Gascons arrived ; the number of 
guests was complete. Never was such surprise painted on so 
many faces ; for an hour nothing was heard but “ saudioux,” 
“ mordioux !” and “ cap de Bious !” and such noisy joy, that it 
seemed to the Fournichons that all Poitou and Languedoc were 
collected in their room. Some knew, and greeted each other. 

“ Is it not singular to find so many Gascons here ?” asked one. 

“ No,” replied Perducas de Pincornay, “ the sign is tempting 
for men of honour.” 

“ Ah ! is it you ?” said St. Maline. the gentleman with the 
lacqueys, “ you have not yet explained to me what you were 
about to do, when the crowd separated us.” 

“ What was that ?” asked Pincornay, reddening. 

“ How it happens that I met you on the road between An- 
gouleme and Angers without a hat, as you are now ?” 

“ It seems to interest you, monsieur ?” 

“ Ma foi ! yes. Poitiers is far from Paris, and you came from 
beyond Poitiers.” 

“Yes, from St. Andre de Cubsac.” 

“ And without a hat ?” 


THE GASCON. 


3 5 

“ Oh ! it is very simple. My father has two magnificent 
horses, and he is quite capable of disinheriting me for the acci- 
dent that has happened to one of them.” 

“ What is that ?” 

“ I was riding one of them, when it took fright at the report 
of a gun that was fired close to me, and ran away ; it made for 
the bank of the Dordogne and plunged in.” 

“ With you ?” 

“ No ; luckily I had time to slip off, or I should have been 
drowned with him.” 

“ Ah ! then the poor beast was drowned ?” 

“ Pardioux ! you know the Dordogne — half a league across.” 

“ And then ? ” 

“ Then I resolved not to return home, but to go away as far 
as possible from my fathers anger.” 

“ But your hat ?” 

“ Diable ! my hat had fallen.” 

“ Like you.” 

“ I did not fall ; I slipped off.” 

“ But your hat ?” 

“ Ah ! my hat had fallen. I sought for it, being my only re- 
source, as I had come out without money.” 

“ But how could your hat be a resource ?” 

“ Saudioux ! it was a great one, for I must tell you that the 
plume of this hat was fastened by a diamond clasp, that his 
Majesty the Emperor Charles V. gave to my grandfather, when, 
on his way from Spain to Flanders, he stopped at our castle.” 

“ Ah ! ah ! and you have sold the clasp, and the hat with it. 
Then, my dear friend, you ought to be the richest of us all, and 
you should have bought another glove ; your hands are not 
alike ; one is as white as a woman’s, and the other as black as 
a negro’s.” 

“ But listen ; as I turned to seek my hat I saw an enormous 
crow seize hold of it.” 

“ Of your hat !” 

“ Or rather of the clasp ; attracted by the glitter, and in spite 
of my cries, he flew away with it, and I saw it no more. So 
that, overwhelmed by this double loss, I did not dare to return 
home, but came to seek my fortune in Paris.” 

“ Good !” cried a third, “ the wind has changed into a crow'. 
I heard you tell M. de Loignac that the wind had carried it 
aw r ay w'hile you w r ere reading a letter from your mistress.” 


36 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


“Now,” cried St. Maline, “I have the honour of knowing 
M. d’Aubigne, who, though a brave soldier, writes well, and I 
recommend you to tell him the history of your hat ; he will 
make a charming story of it.” 

Several stifled laughs were heard. 

“ Ah ! gentlemen,” cried the Gascon, “ do you laugh at 
me ?” 

They turned away to laugh again. 

Perducas threw a glance around him, and saw a young man 
near the fire-place hiding his face in his hands. He thought it 
was to laugh, and, going up to him, struck him on the shoulder, 
saying — 

“ Eh ! monsieur, if you laugh, at all events show your face.” 

The young man looked up ; it was our friend Ernanton de 
Carmainges. 

“ I beg you will leave me alone,” said he, “ I was not think- 
ing of you.” 

Pincornay turned away, grumbling ; but, at this moment, an 
officer entered. 

“ M. de Loignac !” cried twenty voices. 

At this name, known through all Gascony, every one rose 
and kept silence. 


CHAPTER IX. 

M. DE LOIGNAC. 

“ Supper !” cried M. de Loignac ; “ and from this moment let 
all be friends, and love each other like brothers.” 

“ Hum !” said St. Maline. 

“ That would be difficult,” added Ernanton. 

“ See,” cried Pincornay, “ they laugh at me because I have 
no hat, and they say nothing to M. Montcrabeau, who is going 
to supper in a cuirass of the time of the Emperor Pertinax, from 
whom it probably came. See what it is to have defensive arms.” 

“ Gentlemen,” cried Montcrabeau, “ I take it off ; so much 
the worse for those who prefer seeing me with offensive instead 



Ernanton de Carmainges. 























/ 


















« 






















• 



























* 

















M. DE LOIGNAC, 


37 


of defensive arms ;” and he gave his cuirass to his lacquey, a 
man of about fifty years of age. 

“ Peace ! peace !” cried De Loignac, “ and let us go to table.” 

Meanwhile the lacquey whispered to Pertinax, “ And am I 
not to sup ? Let me have something, Pertinax, I am dying of 
hunger.” 

Pertinax, instead of being offended at this familiar address, 
replied, “ I will try, but you had better see for something for 
yourself.” 

“ Hum ! that is not reassuring.” 

“ Have you no money ? ’ 

“ We spent our last crown at Sens.” 

“Diable ! then try to sell something.” 

A few minutes after a cry was heard in the street of “ Old 
iron ! who wants to sell old iron ?” 

Madame Fournichon ran to the door, while M. Fournichon 
placed the supper on the table, and to judge by its reception it 
must have been exquisite. As his wife did not return, how- 
ever, the host asked a servant what she was doing. 

“ Oh, master,” he replied, “ she is selling all your old iron 
for new money.” 

“ I hope not my cuirass and arms,” said he, running to the 
door. 

“ No,” said De Loignac, “it is forbidden to buy arms.” 

Madame Fournichon entered triumphantly. 

“ You have not been selling my arms T cried her husband. 

“Yes, I have.” 

“ I will not have them sold.” 

“ Bah ! in time of peace ; and I have got ten crowns instead 
of an old cuirass.” 

“ Ten crowns ! Samuel, do you hear?” said Pertinax, look- 
ing for his valet, but he was not to be seen. 

“ It seems to me that this man carries on a dangerous trade. 
But what does he do with diem ?” 

“ Sells them again by weight.” 

“By weight ! and you say he gave you ten crowns — for what ?” 

“ A cuirass and a helmet.” 

“ Why, even if they weighed twenty pounds, that is half-a- 
ero wn a pound. This hides some mystery.” 

Voices rose, and the mirth grew loud with all, except Car- 
mainges, who still thought of the mysterious page. He sat by 
M. de Loignac, who said to him ; 


7 HE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


3S 

“ Here are a number of joyful people, and they do not know 
what for.” 

“ Nor I, neither ; but at least I am an exception.” 

“ You are wrong, for you are one of those to whom Paris is 
a paradise.” 

“ Do not laugh at me, M. de Loignac.” 

“ I do not ; I distinguished you at once, and that other 
young man also who looks so grave.” 

“ Who ?” 

“ M. de St. Maline.” 

“And why this distinction, if this question be not too 
turious ?” 

“ I know you, that is all.” 

“ Me ! you know me ?” 

“ You, and he, and all here.” 

“It is strange.” 

“ Yes, but necessary.” 

« Why ?” 

“ Because a chief should know his soldiers.” 

“ And all these men ?” 

“ Will be my soldiers to-morrow.” 

“ But I thought that M. d’Epernon ” 

“ Hush ! do not pronounce that name here.” 

Then rising, M. de Loignac said, “ Gentlemen, since chance 
unites here forty-five compatriots, let us empty a glass of wine 
to the prosperity of all.” 

This proposal gave rise to frantic applause. “ They are 
almost all half drunk,” said De Loignac ; “it would be a good 
opportunity to make them repeat their histories, only time does 
not permit of it.” Then he added aloud, “Hola! M. Fourni- 
chon, dismiss from the room all women, children, and lacqueys. ” 

Lardille retired grumbling, but Militor did not move. “D\l 
you ‘not hear, M. Militor,” said De Loignac ; “ to the kitchen !” 

There remained only the forty-five men, and M. de Loignac 
then said, “ Now, gentlemen, each knows who called him to 
Paris. Good ! that will do ; do not call out his name. You 
know also that you have come to obey him.” 

A murmur of assent came from all, mingled with astonish- 
ment, for each one knew only what concerned himself, and 
was ignorant that his neighbour had been moved by the same 
influence. 

“ Well, then !” continued De Loignac, “ you will have time 


M. DE LOIGNAC. 


39 


to become acquainted with each other afterwards. You agree 
that you have come here to obey him ?” 

“ Yes, yes,” they cried. 

“ Then, to begin ; go quietly out of this hotel to the lodgings 
prepared for you.” 

“ For all ?” asked St. Maline. 

“Yes, for all.” 

“ We are all equal here,” cried Perducas, whose limbs fdt 
rather doubtful under him. 

“ Yes,” replied De Loignac ; “ all are equal before the will of 
the master.” 

“ Oh !” cried Carmainges, colouring ; “ I did not know that 
M. d’Epernon would be called my master.” 

“ Wait !” 

“ I did not expect that.” 

“ Wait, hot head ! I did not tell you who was to be your 
master.” 

“ No ; but you said we should have one.” 

“ Everyone has a master ; and if you are too proud to acknow- 
ledge him we spoke of, you may look higher ; I authorise you.” 

“ The king !” murmured Carmainges. 

“ Silence !” said De Loignac. “ But first will you do me the 
favour to read aloud this parchment.” 

Ernanton took it and read these words, “ Order to M. de 
Loignac to take the command of the forty-five gentlemen whom 
I have sent for to Paris with the consent of his majesty, 

“ Nogaret de La valette, 
“Due d’Epernon.” 

They all bowed at this. 

“ Thus,” continued De Loignac, “you have to follow me at 
once; your equipages and servants will remain here, M. Four- 
nichon will take care of them : we will send for them ; but now, 
be quick ! the boats are ready.” 

“ The boats !” cried they. 

“ Certainly ; to go to the Louvre, we must go by water.” 

“ To the Louvre !” cried they, joyfully. “ Cap de Bious ! 
we are going to the Louvre.” 

De Loignac made them all pass before him, counting them * 
as they went, and then conducted them to the place where three 
large boats were waiting for them. 


4o 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


CHAPTER X. 

THE PURCHASE OF CUIRASSES. 

As soon as the valet of Pertinax heard the words of Madame 
Fournichon, he ran after the dealer, but as it was night and he 
was doubtless in a hurry, he had gone some little way and 
Samuel was obliged to call to him. He appeared to hesitate at 
first, but seeing that Samuel was laden with merchandise, he 
stopped. 

“ What do you want, my friend ?” said he. 

“ Pardieu ! I want to do a little business with you.” 

“ Well, be quick !” 

“ Are you in a hurry ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ When you have seen what I bring you, you will be willing 
t<» wait.” 

“ What is it ?” 

“ A magnificent piece, of which the work but you do 

not listen.” 

“ Yes ; but I am also looking round.” 

“Why?” 

“ Do you not know that it is forbidden to buy arms ?” 

Samuel thought it best to feign ignorance, and said, “ I know 
nothing ; I have just arrived from Mont-de-Marsan.” 

“ Oh ! that is another thing ; but how did you know that I 
bought arms ?” 

“ I was at the door of ‘ The Brave Chevalier.' ” 

“ Well, come under that portico ; it is too public here. 
Now, let me see this cuirass,” said he, when they were there. 

“It is so heavy.” 

“ It is old and out of date.” 

“ A work of art.” 

“ I will give you six crowns.” 

“ What t six crowns ! and you gave ten just now for an old 
thing ” 

“ Six, or none.” 

“ But look at the chasing.” 


7 IJE PURCHASE OF CUIRASSES. 


41 


“ Of what use is the chasing, when I sell by weight ?” 

“ The gilding alone is worth ten crowns ” 

“ Well, I will give you seven.” 

“ You bargain here, and at the inn you gave anything ; 
you go against the law and then endeavour to cheat honest 
people.” 

“ Do not call out so loud.” 

“Oh ! I am not afraid.” 

“Come, then, take ten crowns and begone.” 

“ I told you the gold was worth more. Ah ! you want to 
escape ; I will call the guard,” and he raised his voice. 

At the noise, a window opposite was opened. 

“ Come,” said the dealer ; “ I see I must give you what you 
want. Here are fifteen crowns ; now go.” 

“ That will do,” said Samuel ; “ only these are for my master; 
I want something for myself.” 

The dealer half drew his dagger. 

“ Yes, yes, I see your dagger,” said Samuel ; “ but I also see 
the figure in that balcony, watching you.” 

The dealer, white with terror, looked up, and saw a man who 
had witnessed the whole scene. “ Oh !” said he, affecting to 
laugh ; “ you get all you want out of me : here is another crown. 
And may the devil take you,” he added to himself. 

“Thanks, my good friend,” said Samuel, and he made off. 

The dealer began to take up his wares and was also going, 
when the bourgeois opposite cried out : 

“ It seems, monsieur, that you buy armour.” 

“ No, monsieur,” said the unlucky dealer; “ this was a mere 
chance.” 

“ A chance that suits me.” 

“ In what respect, monsieur?” 

“ I have a heap of old things that I want to get rid of.” 

“ I have as much as I can carry.” 

“ But let me show them to you.” 

“ It is useless ; I have no more money.” 

“ Never mind, I will give you credit ; you look like an honest 
man. ” 

“ Thank you ; but I cannot wait.” 

“ It is odd how I seem to know you.” 

“ Know me !” cried the dealer, trembling. 

“ Look at this helmet,” said the bourgeois, showing it from 
the window. 


42 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


“ You say you know me?” asked the dealer. 

“ I thought so. Are you not ” he seemed seeking for 

the name. “Are you not Nicholas ” 

The dealer looked frightened. 

“ Nicholas Trouchon, ironmonger, Rue de la Cossonnerie ?” 

“ No, no !” cried the man, breathing more freely again. 

“ Never mind ; will you buy all my armour, cuirass, sword, 
and all?” 

“ It is a forbidden commerce.” 

“ I know that ; he whom you dealt with just now called it 
out loud enough.” 

“You heard !” 

“ Yes, all ; and you were liberal. But be easy, I will not be 
hard upon you ; I have been a trader myself.” 

“ What did you sell ?” 

“ Never mind ; I have made my fortune.” 

“ I congratulate you.” 

“ Well, will you buy all my armour ?” 

“No, I only want the cuirass.” 

“ Do you only buy cuirasses ?” 

« Yes.” 

“ That is odd, for if you buy and sell by weight, one sort of 
iron is as good as another.” 

“ That is true, but I have preferences.” 

“ Well, then, buy only the cuirass, or rather — now I think 
again — buy nothing at all.” 

“ What do you mean ?” 

“ I mean that in these times every one wants his arms.” 

“ What ! in perfect peace ?” 

“ My good friend, if we were in perfect peace, you would not 
buy so many cuirasses, and so secretly too. But really, the 
longer I look at you, the more I think I know your face. You 
are not Nicholas Trouchon, but still I know you.” 

“ Silence !” 

“ And if you buy cuirasses ” 

“Well !” 

“ I am sure it is for a work agreeable to God.” 

“ Hold your tongue !” 

“ You enchant me !” cried the bourgeois, stretching out a 
long arm over the balcony and seizing the hand of the dealer. 

“ Then who the devil are you T cried he, who felt his hand 
held as if in a vice. 


THE PURCHASE OF CUIRASSES . 


43 


“ I am Robert Briquet, the terror of schismatics, the friend 
of the Union, and a fierce Catholic; and you are Nicholas 
Gimbelot, the currier.” 

“ No, no ! good-bve.” 

“ What ! are you going ?” 

“ Yes !” and he ran off. 

But Robert Briquet was not a man to be foiled ; he jumped 
from his balcony and ran after him. 

“ You are mad !” said he. “ If I were your enemy, I have 
but to cry out, and the watch is in the next street ; but you are 
my friend, and now I know your name. You are Nicholas 
Poulain, lieutenant to the provost of Paris. I knew it was 
Nicholas something.” 

“ I am lost !” murmured the man. 

“No; you are saved. I will do more for the good cause 
than ever you would ; you have found a brother, l ake one 
cuirass, and I will take another ; I give you my gloves and 
the rest of my armour for nothing. Come on, and Vive 
l’Union !” 

“ You accompany me ?” 

“ I will help you to carry these cuirasses which are to con- 
quer the Philistines. Go on, I follow.” 

A spark of suspicion lingered in the soul of the lieutenant, 
but he thought, “ If he wished me ill, he would not have ac- 
knowledged he knew me. Come on then !” he added aloud, 
“ if you will.” 

“ To life or death !” cried Briquet, and he continued to talk 
in this strain till they arrived near the Hotel Guise, where 
Nicholas Poulain stopped. 

“ I fancied it would be here,” thought Briquet. 

“ Now,” said Nicholas, with a tragic air, “ there is still time 
to retire before entering the lion’s den.” 

“ Bah ! I have entered many. Et non intremuit medulla 
mea !” exclaimed Briquet ; “but pardon me, perhaps you do 
not understand Latin ?” 

“ Do you ?” 

“As you see.” 

“ What a catch !” thought Poulain, “ learned, strong, bold, 
and rich !” Then he added aloud, “ Well ! let us enter,” and 
he conducted Briquet to the door of the hotel. The court was 
full of guards and men wrapped in cloaks, and eight horses, 
saddled and bridled, waited in a corner ; but the-re was not a 


44 


THE FORTY- FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


light to be seen. Poulain whispered his name to the porter, 
and added, “ I bring a good companion.” 

“ Pass on.” 

“Take these to the magazine,” said Poulain, handing the 
cuirasses to a soldier. “ Now, I will present you,” said he to 
Briquet. 

“ No, I am very timid. When I have done some work, I 
will present myself” 

“ As you please. Then wait here for me.” 

“ What are we waiting for ?” asked a voice. 

“ For the master,” replied another. 

At this moment, a tall man entered. “ Gentlemen,” said he, 
“ I come in his name.” 

“ Ah ! it is M. de Mayneville,” said Poulain. 

“ Ah, really !” said Briquet, making a hideous grimace, which 
quite altered him. 

“ Let us go, gentlemen,” said M. de Mayneville, and he 
descended a staircase leading to a vault. All the others fol- 
lowed, and Briquet brought up the rear, murmuring : 

“ But the page ! where the devil is the page ?” 


CHAPTER XI. 

STILL THE LEAGUE. 

At the moment when Robert Briquet was about to enter, he 
saw Poulain waiting for him. 

“ Pardon,” said he, “ but my friends do not know you, and 
decline to admit you to their councils till they know more of you.” 

“ It is just, and I retire, happy to have seen so many brave 
defenders of the Holy Union.” 

“ Shall I re-conduct you ?” 

“ No, I thank you, I will not trouble you.” 

“ But perhaps they will not open for you ; yet I am wanted.” 
“ Have you not a password ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Then give it to me. I am a friend, you know.” 


STILL THE LEAGUE. 


45 


u True. It is ‘ Parma and Lorraine !’ ” 

“ And they will open ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Thanks ; now return to your friends.” 

Briquet to^k some steps as if to go out, and then stopped to 
explore the locality. The result of his observations was, that 
the vault ran parallel to the exterior wall, and terminated in a 
hall destined for the mysterious council from which he had been 
excluded. What confirmed him in this supposition was that he 
saw a light at a barred window, pierced in the wall, and guarded 
by a sort of wooden pipe, such as they placed at the windows 
of convents and prisons, to intercept the view from without, 
while the air was still admitted. Briquet imagined this to be 
the window of the hall, and thought that if he could gain this 
place he could see all. He looked round him ; the court had 
many soldiers and servants in it, but it was large, and the night 
was dark ; besides, they were not looking his way, and the porter 
was busy, preparing his bed for the night. 

Briquet rapidly climbed on to the cornice which ran towards 
the vundow in question, and ran along the w r all like a monkey, 
holding on with his hands and feet to the ornaments of the 
sculpture. Had the soldiers seen in the dark this figure gliding 
along the wall without apparent support, they would not have 
failed to cry, Magic !” but they did not see him. In four 
bounds he reached the window, and established himself between 
the bars and the pipe, so that from the inside he was concealed 
by the one, and from the outside by the other. 

He then saw a great hall, lighted by a torch, and filled with 
armour of all sorts. There were enough pikes, swords, halberts, 
and muskets to arm four regiments. He gave less attention, 
however, to the arms than to the people engaged in distributing 
them, and his piercing eyes sought eagerly to distinguish their 
faces. 

“ Oh ! oh !” thought he, “ there is M. Cruce, little Brigard 
and Leclerc, who dares to call himself Bussy. Peste ! the 
bourgeoisie is grandly represented ; but the nobility — ah ! M. 
de Mayneville presses the hand of Nicholas Poulain ; what a 
touching fraternity ! An orator, too !” continued he, as M. de 
Mayneville prepared to harangue the assembly. 

Briquet could not hear a w r ord, but he thought that he did 
not make much impression on his audience, for one shrugged 
his shoulders, and another turned his back. But at last they 


4 6 


TIIE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


approached, seized his hand, and threw up their hats in the air. 
But though Briquet could not hear, we must inform our readers 
of what passed. 

First, Cruce, Marteau, and Bussy had complained of the in- 
action of the Due de Guise. 

Marteau was spokesman, and said, “ M. de Mayneville, you 
come on the part of M. le Due de Guise, and we accept you as 
his ambassador ; but the presence of the duke himself is indis- 
pensable. After the death of his glorious father, he, when only 
eighteen years of age, made all good Frenchmen join this project 
of the Union, and enrolled us under this banner. We have 
risked our lives, and sacrificed our fortunes, for the triumph of 
this sacred cause, according to our oaths, and yet, in spite of 
our sacrifices, nothing progresses — nothing is decided. Take 
care, M. de Mayneville, Paris will grow tired, and then what 
will you do ?” 

This speech was applauded by all the leaguers. 

M. de Mayneville replied, “ Gentlemen, if nothing is decided, 
it is because nothing is ripe. Consider our situation ; M. le 
Due and his brother the cardinal are at Nancy — the one is 
organising an army to keep in check the Huguenots of Flanders, 
whom M. d’ Anjou wishes to oppose to us, the other is expe- 
diting courier after courier to the clergy of France and to the 
pope, to induce them to adopt the Union. The Due de Guise 
knows, what you do not, that the old alliance between the Due 
d’ Anjou and the Bearnais is ready to be renewed, and he wishes, 
before coming to Paris, to be in a position to crush both heresy 
and usurpation.” 

“ They are everywhere where they are not wanted,” said 
Bussy. “ Where is Madame de Montpensier, for instance ?” 

“She entered Paris this morning.” 

“No one has seen her.” 

“ Yes, monsieur.” 

« Who was it ?” 

“ Salcede.” 

“ Oh ! oh !” cried all. 

“ But where is she ?” cried Bussy. “ Has she disappeared ? 
how did you know she was here ?” 

“ Because I accompanied her to the Porte St. Antoine.” 

“ I heard that they had shut the gates.” 

“ Yes, they had” 

“ Then, how did she pass ?” 


STILL 7 HE LEAGUE. 


A 


" In her own fashion. Something took place at the gates cf 
Paris this morning, gentlemen, of which you appear to be 
ignorant. The orders were to open only to those who brougl t 
a card of admission — signed by whom I know not. Immediately 
before us five or six men, some of whom were poorly clothed, 
passed with these cards, before our eyes. Now, who were those 
men ? What were the cards ? Reply, gentlemen of Paris, 
who promised to learn everything concerning your city.” 

Thus Mayneville, from the accused, became the accuser, 
which is the great art of an orator. 

“Cards and exceptional admissions!” cried Nicholas Pou- 
lain, “ what can that mean ?” 

“ If you do not know, who live here, how should I know, 
who live in Lorraine ?” 

“ How did these people come ?” 

“ Some on foot, some on horseback ; some alone, and seme 
with lacqueys.” 

“ Were they soldiers ?” 

“There were but two swords among the six; I think they 
were Gascons. This concerns you, M. Poulain, to find out. 
But to return to the League. Salcede, who had betrayed us, and 
would have done so again, not only did not speak, but retracted 
on the scaffold — thanks to the duchess, who, in the suite of one 
of these card-bearers, had the courage to penetrate the erow-d 
even to the place of execution, and made herself known to 
Salcede, at the risk of being pointed out. At this sight Salcede 
stopped his confession, and an instant after, the executioner 
stopped his repentance. Thus, gentlemen, you have nothing 
to fear as to our enterprise in Flanders ; this secret is buried in 
the tomb.” 

It was this last speech which had so pleased all the con- 
spirators. Their joy seemed to annoy Briquet ; he slipped down 
from his place, and returning to the court, said to the porter, 
“ Parma and Lorraine.” The gate was opened, and he left. 

History tells us what passed afterwards. M. de Mayneville 
brought from the Guises the plan of an insurrection which con- 
sisted of nothing less than to murder all the principal people of 
the city who were known to be in favour with the king, and 
then to go through the streets crying, “ Vive la Messe ! death 
to our enemies !” In fact, to enact a second St. Bartholomew ; 
in which, however, all hostile Catholics were to be confounded 
with the Protfcstants. 


4 8 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


CHAPTER XII. 

THE CHAMBER OF HIS MAJESTY HENRI III. 

In a great room at the Louvre sat Henri, pale and unquiet. 
Since his favourites, Schomberg, Quelus and Maugiron had 
been killed in a duel, St. Megrin had been assassinated by M. 
de Mayenne, and the wounds left by their deaths were still fresh 
and bleeding. The affection he bore his new favourites was 
very different from what he had felt for the old. He had over- 
whelmed D’Epernon with benefits, but he only loved him by 
fits and starts, and at certain times he even hated him, and 
accused him of cowardice and avarice. 

D’Epernon knew how to hide his ambition, which was indeed 
vague in its aspirations ; but his cupidity governed him com- 
pletely. When he was rich, he was laughing and good-tempered ; 
but when he was in want of money, he used to shut himself up 
in one of his castles, where, frowning and sad, he bemoaned his 
fate, until he had drawn from the weakness of the king some 
new gift. 

Joyeuse was very different. He loved the king, who, in turn, 
had for him almost a fatherly affection. Young and impulsive, 
he was perhaps somewhat egotistical, and cared for little but to 
be happy. Handsome, brave and rich, Nature had done so 
much for him that Henri often regretted that she had left so 
little for him to add. The king knew his men well, for he was 
remarkably clear-sighted ; and though often betrayed, was never 
deceived. But ennui was the curse of his life ; he was ennuy£ 
now, and was wondering if anyone would come and amuse him, 
when M. le Due d’Epernon was announced. Henri was de- 
lighted. 

“ Ah ! good evening, duke ; I am enchanted to see you. 
Why were you not present at the execution of Salcede ? — I told 
you there would be room in my box.” 

“ Sire, I was unable to avail myself of your maiesty’s kind- 
ness.” 

“ Unable ?” 

“ Yes, sire ; I was busy.” 



D’Epernon 










. 



49 


THE CHAMBER OF HIS MAJESTY HENRI HI. 

“ One would think that you were my minister, coming to an- 
nounce, with a long face, that some subsidy had not been paid.” 

“ Ma foi ! your majesty is right ; the subsidy has not been 
paid, and I am penniless. But it was not that which occupied 
me.” 

“What then ?” 

“ Your majesty knows what passed at the execution of Sal* 
cede ?” 

“ Parbleu ! I was there.” 

“They tried to carry off the criminal.” 

“ I did not see that.” 

“ It is the rumour all through the city, however.” 

“ A groundless cne.” 

“ I believe your majesty is wrong.” 

“ On what do you found your belief?” 

“ Because Salcede denied before the people what he had con 
fessed to the judges.” 

“ Ah ! you know that, already.” 

“I try to know all that interests your majesty.” 

“ Thanks ; but what do you conclude from all this ?” 

“ That a man who dies like Salcede was a good servant, sire.” 

“ Well ?” 

“And the master who has such followers is fortunate.” 

“ You mean to say that I have none such ; or, rather, that I 
no longer have them. You are right, if that be what you 
mean.” 

“ I did not mean that ; your majesty would find, I am 
sure, were there occasion, followers as devoted as Salcede . ” 

“ Well, duke, do not look gloomy ; I am sad enough already. 
Do be gay.” 

“ Gaiety cannot be forced, sire.” 

The king struck the table angrily. “ You are a bad friend,” 
said he ; “ I lost all, when I lost my former ones.” 

“ May I dare to say to your majesty, that you hardly en- 
courage the new ones.” 

The king looked at him with an expression which he well 
understood. 

“ Ah ! your majesty reproaches me with your benefits,” said 
he, “ but I do not reproach you with my devotion.” 

“ Lavalette,” cried Henri, “ you make me sad ; you who are 
so clever, and could so easily make me joyful. It is not your 
nature to fight continually, like my old favourites ; but you 

4 


50 


TIIE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


are facetious and amusing, and give good counsel. You know 
all my affairs, like that other more humble friend, with whom 
I never experienced a moment’s ennui.” 

“ Of whom does your majesty speak ?” 

4 ‘Of my poor jester, Chicot. Alas ! where is he?” 

D’Epernon rose, piqued. “ Your majesty’s souvenirs, to- 
day, are not very amusing for other people,” said he. 

“ Why so ?” 

“Your majesty, without intending it, perhaps, compared me 
to Chicot, which is not very flattering.” 

“ You are wrong, D’Epernon ; I could only compare to Chicot 
a man who loves me, and whom I love.” 

“ It was not to resemble Chicot, I suppose, that your majesty 
made me a duke ?” 

“ Chicot loved me, and I miss him ; that is all I can say. 
Oh ! when I think that in the same place where you now are 
have been all those young men, handsome, brave, and faithful 
— -that there, on that very chair on w hich you have placed your 
hat, Chicot has slept more than a hundred times ” 

“ Perhaps that was very amusing,” interrupted the duke, “ but 
certainly not very respectful.” 

“ Alas ! he has now neither mind nor body.” 

“ What became of him ?” 

“ He died, like all who loved me.” 

“Well, sire, I think he did well to die ; he was growing old, 
and I have heard that sobriety was not one of his virtues. Of 
what did he die — indigestion ?” 

“Of grief.” 

“ Oh ! he told you so, to make you laugh once more.” 

“ You are wrong; he would not sadden me with the news of 
his illness. He knew how I regretted my friends — he, who had 
so ofcen seen me weep for them.” 

“ Then it was his shade that came to tell you ?” 

“ No ; I did not even see his shade. It was his friend, the 
worthy prior Gorenflot, who wrote me this sad news.” 

“I see that if he lived your majesty would make him chan- 
cellor.” 

“ I beg, duke, that you will not laugh at those who loved me, 
and whom I loved.” 

“ Oh ! sire, I do not desire to laugh, but just now you re- 
proached me with want of gaiety, parfandious !” 

“ Well, now I am in the mood to hear bad news, if you have 


THE DORMITORY. 


Si 

any to tell. Luckily I have strength to bear it, or I should be 
dead ten times a day.” 

“ Which would not displease certain people of our acquaint- 
ance.” 

“ Oh ! against them I have the arms of my Swiss.” 

“ I could find you a better guard than that.” 

“ You ?” 

“ Yes, sire.” 

“ What is it ?” 

“ Will your majesty be so good as to accompany me to the 
old buildings of the Louvre ?” 

“On the site of the Rue de l’Astruce?” 

4 Precisely.” 

“ What shall I see there ?” 

“ Oh ! come first. ’ 

“ It is a long way, duke.” 

44 We can go in five minutes through the galleries.” 

44 D’Epernon ” 

“ Well, sire ?” 

“ If what you are about to show me be not worth seeing, take 
care.” 

44 I answer for it, sire.” 

“ Come, then,” said the king, rising. 

The duke took his cloak, presented the king’s sword to him, 
then, taking a light, preceded his majesty. 


52 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

THE DORMITORY. 

In less than five minutes they arrived at their destination. The 
duke took out a key, and, after crossing a court, opened an arched 
door, the bottom of which was overgrown with long grass. They 
went along a dark corridor, and then up a staircase to a room, 
of which D’Epernon had also the key. He opened the door, 
and showed the king forty-five beds, and in each of them a 
sleeper. 

The king looked at all this with a troubled curiosity. “ Well,” 
said he, “ who are these people ?” 

“ People who sleep to-night, but will not do so to-morrow 
night.” 

“ Why not ?” 

“ That your majesty may sleep in peace.” 

“ Explain yourself. Are these your friends ?” 

“ Chosen by me, sire ; intrepid guards, who will not quit your 
majesty, and who, gentlemen all, will be able to go wherever your 
majesty goes, and will let no one approach you.” 

“ And you thought of this, D’Epernon ?” 

“ I, alone, sire.” 

“ We shall be laughed at.” 

“ No, we shall be feared.” 

“ But they will ruin me ?” 

“ How can a king be ruined ?” 

“ I cannot pay my Swiss !” 

“Look at these men, sire; do you think they would be very 
expensive to keep ?” 

“ But they could not always live like this, they would be 
stifled. And look at their doublets !” 

“ Oh ! I confess they are not all very sumptuously clothed, 
but if they had been born dukes and peers ” 

“ Yes, I understand ; they would have cost me more ?” 

“Just so.” 

“ Well, how much will they cost ? That will, perhaps, decide 
me, for, in truth, D’Epernon, they do not look very inviting.” 


THE DORMITORY. 


53 


“ Sire, I know they are rather thin and burnt by our southern 
sun, but I was so when I came to Paris. They will fatten and 
whiten like me.” 

“ How they snore !” 

“Sire, you must not judge them to-night ; they have supped 
well.” 

“ Stay, there is one speaking in his sleep ; let us listen.” 

Indeed, one of the gentlemen called out, “ If you are a 
woman, fly !” 

The king approached him sofdy. “ Ah ! ah !” said he, “ he 
is a gallant.” 

“ What do you think of him, sire ?” 

“ His -face pleases me, and he has white hands and a well- 
kept beard.” 

“ It is Ernanton de Carmainges, a fine fellow, who is capable 
of much.” 

“ He has left behind him some love, I suppose, poor fellow. 
But what a queer figure his next neighbour is.” 

“ Ah ! that is M. de Chalabre. If he ruins your majesty, it 
will not be without enriching himself, I answer for it.” 

“ And that one, with such a sombre air ; he does not seem as 
though he dreamed of love.” 

“ What number, sire ?” 

“ Number 12.” 

“ M. de St. Maline, a brave fellow, with a heart of bronze.” 

“Well, Lavalette, you have had a good idea.” 

“ I should think so. Imagine the effect that will be produced 
by these new watch-dogs, who will follow you like your shadow.” 

“ Yes, yes ; but they cannot follow me in this guise.” 

“ Now we return to the money. But about this, also, I have 
an idea.” 

“ D’Epernon !” 

“ My zeal for your majesty doubles my imagination.” 

“ Well, let us hear it.” 

“If it depended upon me, each of these gentlemen should find 
by his bed a purse containing 1000 crowns, as payment for the 
first six months.” 

“ One thousand crowns for six months ! 6000 livres a year S 
You are mad, duke; an entire regiment would not cost that.” 

“ You forget, sire, that it is necessary they should be well 
dressed. Each will have to take from his 1300 crowns enough 
for arms and equipments. Set down 1500 livres to effect this 


5 + 


THE FORTY- FIVE GUARDSMEN . 


in a manner to do you honour, and there would remain 4500 
livres for the first year. Then for subsequent years you could 
give 3000 livres.” 

“ That is more reasonable.” 

“ Then your majesty accepts ?” 

“There is only one difficulty, duke.” 

“ What is it ?” 

“ Want of money.” 

“ Sire, I have found a method. Six months ago a tax was 
levied on shooting and fishing.” 

“ Well ?” 

“The first payment produced 65,000 crowns, which have 
not yet been disposed of.” 

“ I destined it for the war, duke.” 

“The first interest of the kingdom is the safety of the king.” 
“Well; there still would remain 20,000 crowns for the army.” 
“ Pardon, sire, but I had disposed of them, also.” 

« Ah !” 

“ Yes, sire; your majesty had promised me money.” 

“Ah ! and you give me a guard to obtain it.” 

“ Oh ! sire. But look at them ; will they not have a good 
effect?” 

“ Yes, when dressed, they will not look bad. Well, so be it.” 
“ Well, then, sire, I have a favour to ask.” 

“ I should be astonished if you had not.” 

“Your majesty is bitter to-day.” 

“ Oh ! I only mean that having rendered me a service, you 
have the right to ask for a return.” 

“ Well, sire, it is an appointment.” 

“Why, you are already colonel-general of infantry, more 
would crush you.” 

“ In your majesty’s service, I am a Samson.” 

“ What is it, then ?” 

“ I desire the command of these forty-five gentlemen.” 

“ What ! you wish to march at their head ?” 

“ No ; I should have a deputy; only I desire that they should 
iow me as their head.” 

“ Well, you shall have it. But who is to be your deputy ?” 

“ M. de Loignac, sire.” 

“ Ah ! that is well.” 

“ He pleases your majesty?” 

“ Perfectly.” 


7 HE SHADE OF CHICOT. 


53 


“ Then it is decided ?” 

“ Yes; let it be as you wish.” 

“ Then I will go at once to the treasurer, and get my forty 
five purses.” 

“ To-night ?” 

“ They are to find them to-morrow, when they wake.” 
“Good ; then I will return.” 

“ Content, sire ?” 

“ Tolerably.” 

“ Well guarded, at all events.” 

“ By men who sleep.” 

“They will not sleep to morrow, sire.” 


CHAPTER XIV. 

THE SHADE OF CHICOT. 

The king, as we have said, was never deceived as to the charac- 
ter of his friends ; he knew perfectly well that D’Epernon was 
working for his own advantage, but as he expected to have had 
to give and receive nothing in return, whereas he had got forty- 
five guards, he had thought it a good idea. Besides, it was a 
novelty, which was a thing that a poor king of France could 
not always get, and especially Henri III., who, when he had 
gone through his processions, counted his dogs, and uttered 
his usual number of sighs, had nothing left to do. Therefore 
he became more and more pleased with the idea as he returned 
to his room. 

“ These men are doubtless brave, and will be perhaps very 
devoted,” thought he ; “ and forty-five swords always ready to 
leap from their scabbards are a grand thing.” 

This thought brought to his mind the other devoted swords 
that he regretted so bitterly. He became sad again, and in- 
quired for Joyeuse. They replied that he had not returned. 

“ Then call my valets-de-chambre.” 

When he was in bed, they asked if his reader should attend, 
for Henri was subject to long fits of wakefulness, and was often 
read to sleep. 


56 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


“ No,” replied the king. “I want no one; only if M. de 
Joyeuse returns, bring him to me.” 

“ If he returns late, sire ?” 

“ Alas ! he is always late ; but whatever be the hour, bring 
him here.” 

The servants extinguished the candles and lighted a lamp of 
essences, which gave a pale blue flame, that the king liked. 
Henri was tired and soon slept, but not for long ; he awoke, 
thinking he heard a noise in the room. 

“Joyeuse,” he asked ; “ is it you V 

No one replied. The light burned dim, and only threw faint 
tircles on the ceiling of carved oak. 

“ Alone, still !” murmured the king. “ Mon Dieu ! I am 
llone all my life, as I shall be after death.” 

“ ‘ Alone after death that is not certain,” said a powerful 
voice near the bed. 

The king started up and looked round him in terror. “I 
know that voice,” cried he. 

“ Ah ! that is lucky,” replied the voice. 

“ It is like the Voice of Chicot.” 

“ You burn, Henri ; you burn.” 

Then the king, getting half out of bed, saw a man sitting in 
the very chair which he had pointed out to D’Epernon. 

“ Heaven protect me !” cried he ; “ it is the shade of Chicot.” 

“Ah ! my poo^ Henriquet, are you still so foolish ?” 

“ What do you mean ?” 

“That shades cannot speak, having no body, and conse» 
quently no tongue.” 

“ Then you are Chicot, himself,” cried the king, joyfully. 

“ Do not be too sure.” 

“ Then you are not dead, my poor Chicot ?” 

“ On the contrary ; I am dead.” 

“ Chicot, my only friend.” 

“ You, at least, are not changed.” 

“But you, Chicot, are you changed ?” 

“ I hope so.” 

“ Chicot, my friend, why did you leave me ?” 

“ Because I am dead.” 

j “ You said just now that you were not dead. * 

“ Dead to some — alive to others.” 

“ And to me ?” 

“ Dead.” 


THE SHADE OF CHICOT 


57 


“ Why dead to me ?” 

“ It is easy to comprehend that you are not the master here.” 

“ How r 

“You can do nothing for those who serve you.” 

“ Chicot!” 

“ Do not be angry, or I shall be so, also.” 

“Speak then, my friend, 5 ' said the king, fearful that Chicot 
would vanish. 

“ Well, I had a little affair to settle with M. de Mayenne, 
you remember ?” 

“ Perfectly.” 

“ I settled it ; I beat this valiant captain without mercy. 
He sought for me to hang me ; and you, whom I thought 
would protect me, abandoned me, and made peace with him. 
Then I declared myself dead and buried by the aid of my 
friend Gorenflot, so that M de Mayenne has ceased to search 
for me.” 

“ What a frightful courage you had, Chicot ; did you not 
know the grief your death would cause me ?” 

“ I have never lived so tranquilly as since the world thought 
me dead.” 

“ Chicot, my head turns ; you frighten me — I know riot what 
to think.” 

“ Well ! settle something.” 

“ I think that you are dead and ” 

“ Then I lie ; you are polite.” 

“You commence by concealing some things from me ; but 
presently, like the orators of antiquity, you will tell me terrible 
truths.” 

“ Oh ! as to that, I do not say no. Prepare, poor king !” 

“If you are not a shade, how could you come unnoticed 
into my room, through the guarded corridors ?” And Henri, 
abandoning himself to new terrors, threw himself down in the 
bed and covered up his head. 

“ Come, come,” cried Chicot ; “ you have only to touch me 
to be convinced.” 

“ But how did you come ?” 

“ Why, I have still the key that you gave me, and which I 
hung round my neck to enrage your gentlemen, and with this I 
entered.” 

“ By the secret door, then ?’ 

“ Certainly.” 


58 


THE FORTY- FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


“ And why to-day more than yesterday ?” 

“Ah ! that you shall hear.” 

Henri, sitting up again, said like a child, “ Do not tell me 
anything disagreeable, Chicot ; I am so glad to see you again.” 

“ T will tell the truth ; so much the worse if it be disagree 
able.” 

“ But your fear of Mayenne is not serious ?” 

“ Very serious, on the contrary. You understand that M. de 
Mayenne gave me fifty blows with a stirrup leather, in return 
for which I gave him one hundred with the sheath of my sword. 
No doubt he thinks, therefore, that he still owes me fifty, so that 
I should not have come to you now, however great your need, 
had I not known him to be at Soissons.” 

“Well, Chicot, I take you now under my protection, and I 
wish that you should be resuscitated and appear openly.” 

“ What folly !” 

“ I will protect you, on my royal word.” 

“ Bah ! I have better than that.” 

“ What ?” 

“My hole, where I remain.” 

“ I forbid it,” cried the king, jumping out of bed. 

“ Henri, you will catch cold ; go back to bed, I pray.” 

“ You are right, but you exasperated me. How, when I have 
enough guards, Swiss, Scotch, and French, for my own defence, 
should 1 not have enough for yours ?” 

“ Let us see : you have the Swiss ” 

“Yes, commanded by Tocquenot.” 

“ Good ! then you have the Scotch ” 

“Commanded by Larchant.” 

“ Very well ! and you have the French Guards ” 

“ Commanded by Crillon. And then — but I do not know if 
I ought to tell you ” 

“ I did not ask you.” 

“ A novelty, Chicot !” 

“ A novelty ?” 

“Yes; imagine forty-five brave gentlemen.” 

“ Forty-five ? What do you mean ?” 

“ Forty-five gentlemen.” 

“ Where did you find them ? Not in Paris, I suppose ?” 

“ No, but they arrived here yesterday.” 

“ Oh !” cried Chicot, with a sudden illumination, “ I know 
these gentlemen.” 


THE SHADE OF CHICOT. 


59 


“ Really !” 

“ Forty-five beggars, who only want the wallet ; figures to 
make one die with laughter.” 

“ Chicot, there are splendid men among them.” 

“Gascons, like your colonel-general of infantry.” 

“ And like you, Chicot. However, I have forty-five formid- 
able swords at command.” 

“ Commanded by the 46th, whom they call D’Epernon.” 

“ Not exactly.” 

“ By whom, then ?” 

“ De Loignac.” 

“ And it is with them you think to defend yourself?” 

“ Yes, mordieu ! yes.” 

“ Well, I have more troops than you.” 

“ You have troops ?” 

“Why not ?” 

“ What are they ?” 

“ You shall hear. First, all the army that MM. de Guise are 
raising in Lorraine.” 

“ Are you mad ?” 

“ No ; a real army — at least six thousand men.” 

“ But how can you, who fear M. de Mayenne so much, be 
defended by the soldiers of M. de Guise ?” 

“ Because I am dead.” 

“ Again this joke !” 

“ No ; I have changed my name and position.” 

“ What are you then ?” 

“ I am Robert Briquet, merchant and leaguer.” 

“ You a leaguer ?” * 

“ A devoted one, so that I keep away from M. de Mayenne. 
1 have, then, for me, first, the army of Lorraine — six thousand 
men ; remember that number.” 

“ I listen.” 

“ Then, at least one hundred thousand Parisians.” 

“ Famous soldiers 1” 

“Sufficiently so to annoy you much : 6000 and 100,000 are 
106,000 ; then there is the Pope, the Spaniards, M. de Bourbon, 

the Flemings, Henri of Navarre, the Due d’Anjou ” 

“ Have you done ?” interrupted Henri, impatiently. 

“There still remain three classes of people.” 

“ What are they ?” 

“ First the Catholics, who hate you because you only three 


6o 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN . 


parts exterminated the Huguenots ; then the Huguenots, who 
hate you because you have three parts exterminated them : and 
the third party is that which desires neither you, nor your brother, 
nor M. de Guise, but your brother-in law, Henri of Navarre.” 

“ Provided that he abjure. But these people of whom you 
speak are all France.” 

“ J ust so. These are my troops as a leaguer ; now add, and 
compare.” 

“ You are joking, are you not, Chicot ?” 

“ Is it a time to joke, when you are alone, against all the 
world ?” 

Henri assumed an air of royal dignity. “ Alone I am,” said 
he, “ but at the same time I alone command. You show me 
an army, but where is the chief? You will say, M. de Guise ; 
but do I not keq-> him at Nancy ? M. de Mayenne, you say 
yourself, is at Soissons, the Due d'Anjou is at Brussels, and the 
King of Navarre at Pau ; so that if I am alone, I am free. I 
am like a hunter in the midst of a plain, waiting to see his prey 
come within his reach.” 

“ On the contrary ; you are the game whom the hunters track 
to his lair.” 

“ Chicot !” 

“ Well ! let me hear whom you have seen come.” 

“ No one.” 

“ Yet some one has come.” 

“ Of those whom I named ?” 

“ Not exactly, but nearly.” 

“ Who ?” 

“ A woman.” 

“ My sister Margot ?” 

“ No ; the Duchesse de Montpensier.” 

“ She ! at Paris ?” 

“ Mon Dieu ! yes.” 

Well, if she be; 1 do not fear women.” 

“ True ; but she comes as the avant courier to announce the 
arrival of her brother.” 

“ Of M. de Guise ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ And you think that embarrasses me ? Give me ink and 
paper.” 

“ What for ? To sign an order for M. de Guise to remain at 
Nancy ?” 


THE SHADE OF CHICOT 


6 1 


“ Exactly ; the idea must be good, since you had it also.” 

“ Execrable, on the contrary. ” 

“ Why ?” 

“ As soon as he receives it he will know he is wanted at 
Paris, and he will come.” 

The king grew angry. “ If you only returned to talk like 
this,” said he, “you had better have stayed away.” 

“ What would you have ? Phantoms never flatter. But 
be reasonable ; why do you think M. de Guise remains at 
Nancy ?” 

“ To organise an army.” 

“ Well ; and for what purpose does he destine this army?” 

“ Ah, Chicot ! you fatigue me with all these questions.” 

“ You will sleep better after it. He destines this army ” 

“ To attack the Huguenots in the north ” 

“ Or rather, to thwart your brother of Anjou, who has called 
himself Duke of Brabant, and wishes to build himself a throne 

in Flanders, for which he solicits your aid ” 

“ Which I never sent.” 

“ To the great joy of the Due de Guise. Well, if you were 

to feign to send this aid — if they only went half way ” 

“ Ah ! yes, I understand ; M. de Guise would not leave the 
frontier.” 

“ And the promise of Madame de Montpensier that her 

brother would be here in a week ” 

“Would be broken.” 

“ You see, then ?” 

“ So far, good ; but in the south ” 

“ Ah, yes ; the Bearnais ” 

“ Do you know what he is at ?” 

“ No.” 

“ He claims the towns which were his wife’s dowry,” said the 
king. 

“ Insolent ! to claim what belongs to him.” 

“ Cahors, for example ; as if it would be good policy to give 
up such a town to an enemy.” 

“ No; but it would be like an honest man.” 

“ But to return to Flanders. I will send some one to my 
brother — but whom can I trust ? Oh ! now I think of it, you 
shall go, Chicot.” 

“ I, a dead man ?” 

“ No ; you shall go as Robert Briquet.” 


62 


TI1E FORTY- FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


“ As a bagman ?” 

“ Do you refuse ?” 

“ Certainly.” 

“ You disobey me !” 

“ I owe you no obedience •” 

Henri was about to reply, when the door opened and the 
Due de Joyeuse was announced. 

“ Ah ! there is your man/’ said Chicot ; “ who could make 
a better ambassador ?” 

Chicot then buried himself in the great chair, so as to be 
quite invisible in the dim light. M. de Joyeuse did not see 
him. The king uttered a cry of joy on seeing his favourite, and 
held out his hand. 

“ Sit down, Joyeuse, my child,” said he ; “ how late you are.” 

“ Your majesty is very good,” answered Joyeuse. approaching 
the bed, on which he sat down. 


CHAPTER XV. 

THE DIFFICULTY OF FINDING A GOOD AMBASSADOR. 

Chicot was hidden in his great chair, and Joyeuse was half 
lying on the foot of the bed in which the king was bolstered up, 
when the conversation commenced. 

“Well, Joyeuse,” said Henri, “ have you well wandered about 
the town.” 

“ Yes, sire,” replied the duke, carelessly. 

“ How quickly you disappeared from the Place de Greve.” 

“ Sire, to speak frankly, I do not like to see men suffer.” 

“ Tender heart.” 

“ No ; egotistical heart, rather ; their sufferings act on my 
nerves.” 

“ You know what passed?” 

“ Ma foi ! no.” 

“ Salcede denied all.” 

“ Ah !” 

, “You bear it very indifferently, Joyeuse." 


THE DIFFICULTY OF FLVDLYG A GOOD AMBASSADOR . 63 

“ I confess I do not attach much importance to it ; besides, 
I was certain he would deny everything.” 

“ But since he confessed before the judges ” 

“ All the more reason that he should deny it afterwards. 
The confession put the Guises on their guard, and they were at 
work while your majesty remained quiet.” 

“ What ! you foresee such things, and do not warn me ?” 

“ I am not a minister, to talk politics.” 

“ Well, Joyeuse, I want your brother.” 

“ He, like myself, is at your majesty’s service.” 

“Then I may count on him.” 

“ Doubtless.” 

“ I wish to send him a little mission.” 

“ Out of Paris ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“In that case, it is impossible.” 

“ How so ?” 

“ Du Bouchage cannot go away just now.” 

The king looked astonished. “ What do you mean ?” said he 

“ Sire,” said Joyeuse quietly, “it is the simplest thing pos- 
sible. Du Bouchage is in love, but he had carried on his 
negotiations badly, and everything was going wrong; the poor 
boy was growing thinner and thinner.” 

“Indeed,” said the king, “ I have remarked it.” 

“ And he had become sad, mordieu ! as if he had lived in 
your majesty’s court.” 

A kind of grunt, proceeding from the corner of the room, in- 
terrupted Joyeuse, who looked round astonished. 

“ It is nothing, Joyeuse,” said the king, laughing, “ only a 
dog asleep on the footstool. You say, then, that Du Bouchage 
grew sad ? ” 

“ Sad as death, sire. It seems he has met with some woman 
of an extraordinary disposition. However, one sometimes suc- 
ceeds as well with this sort of women as with others, if you only 
set the right way to work.” 

“ You would not have been embarrassed, libertine ?” 

“ You understand, sire, that no sooner had he made me his 
confidant, than I undertook to save him.” 

“ So that ” 

“ So that already the cure commences.” 

“ What, is he less in love ?”. 

“ No ; but he has more hope of making her so. For the 


6 4 


THE FORTY FIVE GUARDSMEN*. 


future, instead of sighing with the lady, we mean to amuse her 
in every possible way. To-night I stationed thirty Italian musi- 
cians under her balcony.” 

“ Ah ! ma foi ! music would not have amused me when I was 
in love with Madame de Conde.” 

“ No ; but you were in love, sire, and she is as cold as an 
icicle.” 

“ And you think music will melt her ?” 

“ Diable ! I do not say that she will come at once and throw 
herself into the arms of Du Bouchage, but she will be pleased 
at all this being done for herself alone. If she do not care for 
this, we shall have plays, enchantments, poetry — in fact, all the 
pleasures of the earth, so that, even if we do not bring gaiety 
back to her, I hope we shall to Du Bouchage.” 

“Well, I hope so ; but since it would be so trying to him to 
leave Paris, I hope you are not also, like him, the slave of some 
passion ?” 

“ I never was more free, sire.” 

“ Oh ! I thought you were in love with a beautiful lady ?” 

“ Yes, sire, so I was ; but imagine that this evening, after 
’having given my lesson to Du Bouchage, I went to see her, with 
my head full of his love story, and, believing myself almost as 
much in love as he, 1 found a trembling frightened woman, and 
thinking I had disturbed her somehow, I tried to reassure her, 
but it was useless. I interrogated her, but she did not replv. 
I tried to embrace her, and she turned her head away. I grew 
angry, and we quarrelled ; and she told me she should never be 
at home to me any more.” 

“ Poor Joyeuse ; what did you do ?” 

“ Pardieu, sire ! I took my hat and cloak, bowed, and went 
out, without once looking back.” 

“ Bravo, Joyeuse it was courageous.” 

“ The more so, sire, that I thought I heard her sigh.” 

“ But you will return ?” 

“No, I am proud.” 

“ Well, my friend, this rupture is for your good.” 

“ Perhaps so, sire ; but I shall probably be horribly ennuy£ 
for a week, having nothing to do. It may perhaps amuse me, 
however, as it is something new, and I think it distingue.” 

“ Certainly it is, I have made it so,” said the king. “ How- 
ever, I will occupy you with something.” 

- “ Something lazy, I hope ?” . 


THE DIFFICULTY OF FINDING A GOOD AMBASSADOR. 65 

A second noise came from the chair ; one might have thought 
the dog was laughing at the words of Joyeuse. 

“What am I to do, sire?” continued Joyeuse. 

“ Get on your boots. ” 

“ Oh ! that is against all my ideas.” 

“ Get on horseback.” 

“ On horseback ! impossible.” 

“ And why ?” 

“ Because I am an admiral, and admirals have nothing to do 
with horses.” 

“ Well, then, admiral, if it be not your place to mount a horse, 
it is so at all events to go on board ship. So you will start at 
once for Rouen, where you will find your admiral’s ship, and 
make ready to sail immediately for Antwerp ” 

“ For Antwerp !” cried Joyeuse, in a tone as despairing as 
though he had received an order for Canton or Valparaiso. 

“ I said so,” replied the king, in a cold and haughty tone, 
“and there is no need to repeat it.” 

Joyeuse, without making the least farther resistance, fastened 
his cloak and tO)k his hat. 

“ What a trou )le I have to make myself obeyed,” continued 
Henri. “ Ventrebleu ! if I forget sometimes that I am the 
master, others might remember it.” 

Joyeuse bowed stiffly, and said, “ Your orders, sire ?” 

The king began to melt. “ Go,” said he, “ to Rouen, where 
I wish you to embark, unless you prefer going by land to 
Brussels.” 

Joyeuse did not answer, but only bowed. 

“ Do you prefer the land route, duke ?” asked Henri. 

“ I have nc preference when I have an order to execute, 
sire.” 

“There, now you are sulky. Ah ! kings have no friends.” 

“Those who give orders can only expect to find servants.” 

“Monsieur,” replied the king, angry again, “ you will go then 
to Rouen ; you will go on board your ship, and will take the 
garrisons of Caudebec, Harfleur, and Dieppe, which I will re- 
place afterwards. You will put them on board six transports, 
and place them at the service of my brother, who expects aid 
from me.” 

“ My commission, if you please, sire.” 

“And since when have you been unable to act by virtue of 
your rank as admiral?” 


66 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


“ I only obey, sire ; and, as much as possible, avoid responsi- 
bility.” 

“ Well, then, M. le Due, you will receive the commission at 
your hotel before you depart.” 

“ And when will that be ?” 

“In an hour.” 

Joyeuse bowed and turned to the door. The king’s heart 
misgave him. “ What !” cried he, “ not even the courtesy of 
an adieu ? You are not polite, but that is a common reproach 
to naval people.” 

“ Pardon me, sire, but I am a still worse courtier than I am 
a seaman and, shutting the door violently, he went out. 

“ See how those love me, for whom I have done so much,” 
cried the king ; “ungrateful Joyeuse !** 

“ Well, are you going to recall him ?” said Chicot, advancing. 
“ Because, for once in your life, you have been firm, you re- 
pent it.” 

“ Ah ! so you think it very agreeable to go to sea in the 
month of October? I should like to see you do it.” 

“ You are quite welcome to do so ; my greatest desire just 
now is to travel.” 

“ Then if I wish to send you somewhere you will not object 
to go ?” 

“ Not only I do not object, but I request it” 

“ On a mission ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Will you go to Navarre ?” 

“ I would go to the devil.” 

“ You are joking.” 

“ No ; since my death I joke no more.” 

“ But you refused just now to quit Paris.” 

“ I was wrong, and I repent. I will go to Navarre, if you 
will send me.” 

“ Doubtless ; I wish it.” 

“ I wait your orders, gracious prince,” said Chicot, assuming 
the same attitude as Joyeuse. 

“ But you do not know if the mission will suit you. I have 
certain projects of embroiling Margot with her husband.” 

“ Divide to reign was the A B C of politics one hundred 
years ago.” 

“ Then you have no repugnance ?” 

'* It does net concern me ; do as you wish. I am ambas- 


THE DIFFICULTY OF FtNDING A GOOD AMBASSADOR. 67 

sador, that is all ; and as long as I am inviolable, that is all I 
care for.” 

“ But now you must know what to say to my brother-in-law.” 

“ I say anything ! Certainly not.” 

“ Not ?” 

“ I will go where you like, but I will say nothing.” 

“ Then you refuse ?” 

“ I refuse to give a message, but I will take a letter.” 

“ Well, I will &ive you a letter.” 

“ Give it me, then.” 

“ What ! you do not think such a letter can be written at 
once. It must be well weighed and considered.” 

“ Well, then, think over it. I will come or send for it early 
to-morrow.” 

‘‘ Why not sleep here ?” 

“ Here ?” 

“ Yes, in your chair.” 

“ I sleep no more at the Louvre.” 

“ But you must know my intentions concerning Margot and 
her husband. My letter will make a noise, and they will ques- 
tion you ; you must be able to reply.” 

“ Mon Dieu !” said Chicot, shrugging his shoulders, “ how 
obtuse you are, great king. Do you think I am going to carry 
a letter a hundred and fifty leagues without knowing what is in 
it ? Be easy, the first halt I make I shall open your letter and 
read it. What ! have you sent ambassadors for ten years to all 
parts of the world, and know no better than that ? Come, rest 
in peace, and I will return to my solitude.” 

“ Where is it ?” 

“ In the cemetery of the Grands-Innocens, great prince.” 

Henri looked at him in astonishment again. 

“Ah ! you did not expect that,” said Chicot. “Well, till to- 
morrow, when I or my messenger will come ” 

“ How shall I know your messenger when he arrives ?” 

“ He will say he comes from the shade.” And Chicot dis- 
appeared so rapidly as almost to reawaken the king’s fears as to 
whether he were a shade or not. 


68 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

THE SERENADE. 

From the Louvre Chicot had not far to go to his home. He 
went to the bank of the Seine and got into a little boat which he 
had left there. 

“ It is strange,” thought he, as he rowed and looked at the 
still-lighted window of the king’s room, “ that after so many 
years, Henri is still the same. Others have risen or fallen, 
while he has gained some wrinkles, and that is all. He has the 
same weak, yet elevated mind — still fantastical and poetical — 
still the same egotistical being, always asking for more than one 
has to give him, friendship from the indifferent, love from the 
friendly, devotion from the loving, and more sad than anyone 
in his kingdom. By- the-bye, he did not speak of giving me any 
money for my journey ; that proves at least that he thinks me 
a friend.” And he laughed quietly. 

He soon arrived at the opposite bank, where he fastened his 
boat. On entering the Rue des Augustins, he was struck by 
the sound of instruments and voices in the street at that late 
hour. 

“ Is there a wedding here ?” thought he, “ 1 have not long to 
sleep, and now this will keep me awake.” 

As he advanced, he saw a dozen flambeaux carried by pages, 
while thirty musicians were playing on different instruments. 
The band was stationed before a house, that Chicot, with sur- 
prise, recognised as his own. He remained for an instant 
stupefied, and then said to himself, “There must be some mis- 
take; all this noise cannot be for me. Unless, indeed, some 
unknown princess has suddenly fallen in love with me.” 

This supposition, flattering as it was, did not appear to con- 
vince Chicot, and he turned towards the house facing his, but 
it showed no signs of life. 

“ They must sleep soundly, there,” said he ; “ such a noise is 
enough to wake the dead.” 


THE SERENA DE. 


69 


“ Pardon me, my friend,” said he, addressing himself to a 
torch-bearer, “ but can you tell me, if you please, who all this 
music is for ?” 

“ For the bourgeois who lives there,” replied he, pointing cut 
to Chicot his own house. 

“ Decidedly it is for me !” thought he. “ Whom do you 
belong to ?” he asked. 

“ To the bourgeois who lives there.” 

“ Ah ! they not only come for me, but they belong to me — 
still better. Well ! we shall see,” and piercing through the 
crowd, he opened his door, went upstairs, and appeared at his 
balcony, in which he placed a chair and sat down. 

“ Gentlemen,” said he, “ are you sure there is no mistake ? 
is all this really for me ?” 

“ Are you M. Robert Briquet ?” 

“Himself.” 

“ Then we are at your service, monsieur,” said the leader of 
the band, giving the sign to recommence. 

“ Certainly it is unintelligible,” thought Chicot. He looked 
around ; all the inhabitants of the street were at their windows, 
excepting those of the opposite house, which, as we have said, 
remained dark and quiet. But on glancing downwards, he saw 
a man wrapped in a dark cloak, and who wore a black hat with 
a red feather, leaning against the portico of his own door, and 
looking earnestly at the opposite house. 

The leader of the band just then quitted his post and spoke 
softly to this man, and Chicot instantly guessed that here lay all 
the real interest of the scene. Soon after, a gentleman on horse- 
back, followed by two squires, appeared at the corner of the 
street, and pushed his way through the crowd, while the music 
stopped. 

“ M. de Joyeuse,” murmured Chicot, who recognised him at 
once. 

The cavalier approached the gentleman under the balcony. 

“ Well ! Henri,” said he, “ what news ?” 

“ Nothing, brother.” 

“ Nothing?” 

“ No ; she has not even appeared.” 

“ They have not made noise enough.” 

“ They have roused all the neighbourhood.” 

“ They did not cry as I told them, that it was all in honour of 
this bourgeois.” 


7o 


THE F&RTV-F1VE GUARDSMEN . 


“ They cried it so loud, that there he is, sitting in his balcony, 
listening.” 

“ And she has not appeared ?” 

“ Neither she, nor any one.” 

“ The idea was ingenious, however, for she might, like the rest 
of the people, have profited by the music given to her neigh- 
bour.” 

“ Ah ! you do not know her, brother.” 

“ Yes, I do ; or at all events I know women, and as she is 
but a woman, we will not despair.” 

“ Ah ! you say that in a discouraged tone, brother.” 

“ Not at all ; only give the bourgeois his serenade every night-’ 

“ But she will go away.” 

“ Not if you do not speak to her, or seem to be doing it on her 
account, and remain concealed. Has the bourgeois spoken ?” 

“Yes, and he is now speaking again.” 

“ Hold your tongue up there, and go in,” cried Joyeuse, out 
of humour. “ Diable ! you have had your serenade, so keep 
quiet.” 

“ My serenade ! that is just what I want to know the mean- 
ing of ; to whom is it addressed ?” 

“To your daughter.” 

“ I have none.” 

“ To your wife, then.” 

“ Thank God, I am not married.” 

“Then to yourself — and if you do not go in ” cried 

Joyeuse, advancing with a menacing air. 

“ Ventre de biche ! but if the music be for me 

“ Old fool !” growled Joyeuse. “ If you do not go in and hide 
your ugly face, they shall break their instruments over your head.” 

“Let the man alone, brother,” said Henri, “the :a:t is, he 
must be very much astonished.” 

“ Oh ! but if we get up a quarrel, perhaps she will look to see 
what is the matter ; we will burn his house down, if necessary.” 

“ No, for pity’s sake, brother, do not let us force her atten- 
tion ; we are beaten, and must submit.” 

Chicot, who heard all, was mentally preparing the means of 
defence, but Joyeuse yielded to his brcrsher’s request, and dis- 
missed the pages and musicians. 

Then he said to his brother, “ I am in despair ; all conspires 
against us.” 

“ What do you mean ?” 


THE SERENADE . 


71 


“ I have no longer time to aid you.” 

“ I see now that you are in travelling dress ; I did not remark 
it before.” 

“ I set off to-night for Antwerp, by desire of the king.” 

“ When did he give you the order ?” 

“This evening.” 

“ Mon Dieu !” 

“ Come with me, I entreat.” 

“ Do you order me, brother?” said Henri, turning pale at the 
thought. 

“No; I only beg you.” 

“ Thank you, brother. If I were forced to give up passing 
my nights under this window.” 

“ Well ?” 

“ I should die.” 

“ You are mad.” 

“ My heart is here, brother ; my life is here.” 

, Joyeuse crossed his arms with a mixture of anger and pity. 
“ If our father,” he said, “ begged you to let yourself be attended 
by Miron, who is at once a philosopher and a doctor ?” 

“ I should reply to my father that I am well and that my 
brain is sound, and that Miron cannot cure love sickness.” 

“ Well then, Henri, I must make the best of it. She is but a 
woman, and at my return I hope to see you more joyous than 
myself.” 

“ Yes, yes, my good brother, I shall be cured — I shall be 
nappy, thanks to your friendship, which is my most precious pos- 
session.” ** 

“ After your love.” 

“ Before my life.” 

Joyeuse, much touched, interrupted him. 

“ Let us go, brother,” said he. 

“ Yes, brother, I follow you,” said Du Bouchage, sighing. 

“ Yes, I understand ; the last adieux to the window ; but you 
h^ve also one for me, brother.” 

Henri passed his arms round the neck of his brother, who 
leaned down to embrace him. 

“ No !” cried he. “ I will accompany you to the gates,” and 
with a last look towards the window, he followed his brother. 

Chicot continued to watch. Gradually every one disappeared, 
and the street was deserted. Then one of the windows of the 
opposite house was opened, and a man looked out. 


72 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


“ There is no longer any one, madame,” said he ; “ yon may 
leave your hiding-place and go down to your own room.” and 
lighting a lamp, he gave it into a hand stretched out to receive it. 

Chicot looked earnestly, but as he caught sight of her pale 
but sublime face, he shuddered and sat down, entirely subju- 
gated, in his turn, by the melancholy influence of the house. 


CHAPTER XVII. 
chicot’s purse. 

Chicot passed the remainder of the night dreaming in his arm- 
chair, for the face of that woman brought before him a number 
of illustrious shades connected with many happy or terrible 
souvenirs, and he who had regretted his sleep on first arriving, 
now ‘thought no more of it. 

When morning dawned he got up, threw a cloak over his 
shoulders, and with the firmness of a sage, examined the bottom 
of his purse and his shoes. Chicot, a man of lively imagination, 
had made in the principal beam which ran through his house a 
cavity, a foot and a half long and six inches wide, which he used 
as a strong box. to contain 1000 crowns in gold. He had made 
the following calculation : “ I spend the twentieth part of one of 
these crowns every day ; therefore I have enough to last me for 
20,000 days. I cannot live so long as that, but I may live half 
as long, and as I grow older my wants and expenses will in- 
crease, and this will give me twenty-five or thirty good years to 
live, and that is enough.” He was therefore tranquil as to the 
future. 

This morning on opening his store, “ Ventre de biche !” he 
cried, “ times are hard, and I need not be delicate with Henri. 
This money did not come from him, but from an old uncle. If 
it were still night, I would go and get ioo crowns from the king ; 
but now I have no resource but in myself or in Gorenflot.” 

This idea of drawing money from Gorenflot made him smile. 
“ It would be odd,” thought he, “ if Gorenflot should refuse 
i op crowns to the friend through whom he was appointed prior 


cmcors PURSE. 


73 


to the Ja*obins. But this letter of the king’s. I must go and 
fetch it. But these Joyeuses are in truth capable of burning rny 
house down some night, to attract the lady to her window : and 
my 1000 crowns ! really, I think it would be better to hide them 
in the ground. However, if they burn my house the king shall 
pay me for it.” 

Thus reassured he left the house, and at that moment saw at 
the window of the opposite house the servant of the unknown 
lady. This man, as we have said, was completely disfigured by a 
scar extending from the left temple to the cheek ; but although 
bald and with a gray beard, he had a quick, active appearance, 
and a fresh and young-looking complexion. On seeing Chicot, 
he drew his hood over his head, and was going in, but Chicot 
called out to him : 

“ Neighbour! the noise here last night quite disgusted me, and 
I am going for some weeks to my farm ; will you be so obliging as 
to look after my house a little ?” 

“Willingly, monsieur.” 

“ And if you see robbers ?” 

“ Be easy, monsieur, I have a good arquebuse.” 

“ I have still one more favour to ask.” 

“What is it ?” 

“ I hardly like to call it out.” 

“I will come down to you.” 

He came down accordingly, with his hood drawn closely 
round his face, saying, as a sort of apology, “It is very cold 
this morning.” 

“ Yes,” said Chicot, “ there is a bitter wind. Well, monsieur, 
I am going away.” 

“You told me that before !” 

“ Yes, I know ; but I leave a good deal of money behind 
me.” 

“ So much the worse ; why not take it with you ?” 

“I cannot ; but I leave it well hidden- -so well, that I have 
nothing to fear but fire. If that should happen, will you try 
and look after that great beam you see on the right.” 

“ Really, monsieur, you embarrass me. This confidence would 
have been far better made to a friend than to a stranger of 
whom you know nothing.” 

“ It is true, monsieur, that I do not know you ; but I believe 
in faces, and I think yours that of an honest man.” 

“ But, monsieur, it is possible that this music may annoy my 
mistress also, and then she might move.” 


74 


THE FORTY FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


“Well, that cannot be helped, and I must take my chance.” 
“ Thanks, monsieur, for your confidence in a poor unknown ; 
I will try to be worthy of it;” and bowing, he went into the 
house. 

Chicot murmured to himself, “ Poor young man, what a 
wreck, and I have seen him so gay and so handsome.” 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

THE PRIORY OF THE JACOBINS. 

The priory which the king had bestowed upon Gorenflot was 
situated near the Porte St. Antoine. This was at that time 
a very favourite quarter, for the king frequently visited the 
Chateau of Vincennes, and different noblemen had built charm- 
ing residences in its neighbourhood. 

The priory was built on four sides of an immense court, 
planted with trees ; it had a kitchen-garden behind, and a 
number of out-houses, which made it look like a small village. 
Two hundred monks occupied the dormitories situated at the 
end of the courtyard, while in the front, four large windows, 
with a balcony before them, gave to these apartments air and 
light. 

It was maintained on its owm resources and dependences ; 
its pasture land fed a troop of fifty oxen and ninety-nine sheep, 
for by some traditional law, no religious order w r as allowed to 
possess one hundred of anything, while certain outbuildings 
sheltered ninety-nine pigs of a particular breed, which w^ere 
most carefully reared and fattened. The espaliers of the priory, 
which were exposed to the mid-day sun, furnished peaches, 
apricots, and grapes, while preserves of these fruits w 7 ere skiP 
fully made by a certain Brother Eusebius, who was the archi- 
tect of the famous rock constructed of sweetmeats which had 
been presented to the tw r o queens by the Hotel de Ville of 
Paris at the last state banquet which had taken place there. 

In the interior of this paradise for gourmands and sluggards, 
in a sumptuous apartment, we shall find Gorenflot, ornamented 


THE PRIORY OF THE JACOBINS. 75 

with an additional chin, and characterised by that sort of vener- 
able gravity which the constant habit of repose and good 
living gives to the most vulgar faces. Half-past seven in the 
morning had just struck. The prior had profited by the rule 
which gave to him an hour’s more sleep than to the other monks, 
and now, although he had risen, he was quietly continuing his 
sleep in a large armchair as soft as eider-down. The furniture 
of the room was more mundane than religious ; a carved table, 
covered with a rich cloth, books of religious gallantry — that 
singular mixture of love and devotion, which we only meet 
with at that epoch of art — expensive vases, and curtains of rich 
damask, were some of the luxuries of which Dom Modeste 
Gorenflot had become possessed by the grace of God, of the 
king, and of Chicot. 

Gorenflot slept, as we have said, in his chair, when the door 
opened softly, and two men entered. The first was about 
thirty-five years of age, thin and pale, and with a look which 
commanded, even before he spoke ; lightnings seemed to dart 
from his eyes when they were open, although the expression was 
generally softened by a careful lowering of the white eyelids. 
This was Brother Borrome'e, who had been for the last three 
weeks treasurer of the convent. The other was a young man 
about seventeen or eighteen, with piercing black eyes, a bold 
look, and whose turned-up sleeves displayed two strong arms 
quick in gesticulation. 

“ The prior sleeps still, Father Borromee,” said he ; “ shall 
we wake him ?” 

“ On no account, Brother Jacques.” 

“ Really, it is a pity to have a prior who sleeps so long, for 
we might have tried the arms this morning. Did you notice 
what beautiful cuirasses and arquebuses there were among 
them ?’’ 

“ Silence ! brother ; you will be heard.” 

“ How unlucky,” cried the young man, impatiently, stamping 
his feet, “it is so fine to-day, and the court is so dry.” 

“ We must wait, my child,” replied Borromee, with a sub- 
mission his glance belied. 

“ But why do you not order them to distribute the arms ?” 

“ I, order !” 

“Yes, you.”^ 

“ You know' that I am not the master here ; there is the 
master.” 


7 6 


THE FORTY- FIVE GUARDSMEN 


“ Yes, asleep, when everyone else is awake,” replied Jacques, 
impatiently. 

“ Let us respect his sleep,” said Borromee, overturning a 
chair, however, as he spoke. 

At the sound, Gorenflot looked up and said, sleepily, “ Who 
is there ?” 

“ Pardon us,” said Borromee, “ if we interrupt your pious 
meditations, but I have come to take your orders.” 

“ Ah ! good morning, Brother Borromee ; what orders do 
you want?” 

“ About the arms.” 

“ What arms ?” 

‘‘Those which your reverence ordered to be brought here.” 

“I, and when?” 

“ About a week ago.” 

“ I ordered arms ?” 

“ Without doubt,” replied Borromee, firmly. 

“And what for ?” 

“Your revere ce said to me, * Brother Borromee, it would be 
wise to procure arms for the use of the brethren ; gymnastic 
exercises develop the bodily forces, as pious exhortations do 
those of the soul.’” 

“I said that?” 

. “ Yes, reverend prior ; and I, an unworthy but obedient 
brother, hastened to obey.” 

“ It is strange, but I remember nothing about it.” 

“You even added this text, ‘ Militat spiritu, militat gladio. 5 ” 

“ What !” cried Gorenflot, “ I added that text !” 

“ I have a faithful memory,” said Borromee, lowering his 
eyes. 

“Well, if I said so, of course I had my reasons for it In- 
deed, that has always been my opinion.” 

“ Then I will finish executing your orders, reverend prior,” 
said Borromee, retiring with Jacques. 

“ Go,” said Gorenflot, majestically. 

“ Ah !” said Borromee, “ I had forgotten ; there is a friend 
in the parlour who asks to see your reverence.” 

“ What is his name ?” 

“ M. Robert Briquet.” 

“ Oh ! he is not a friend ; only an acquaintance.” 

“ Then your reverence will not see him ?” 

“ Oh, yes ! let him come up ; he amuses me.” 


THE TWO FRIENDS. 


71 


CHAPTER XIX. 

THE TWO FRIENDS. 

When Chicot entered, the prior did not rise, but merely bent 
his head. 

‘‘Good morning,” said Chicot. 

“A!i ! there you are ; you appear to have come to life again.” 

“ Did you think me dead ?” 

“ Diable ! I never saw you.” 

“ I was busy.” 

“Ah !” 

Chicot knew that before being warmed by two or three bottles 
of old Burgundy, Gorenflot was sparing of his words ; and so, 
considering the time of the morning, it was probable that he 
was still fasting, Chicot sat down to wait. 

“ Will you breakfast with me, M. Briquet ?” asked Gorenflot. 

“ Perhaps.” 

“ You must not be angry with me, if it has become impos- 
sible for me to give you as much time as I could wish.” 

“ And who the devil asked you for your time ? I did not 
even ask you for breakfast ; you offered it.” 

“ Certainly I offered it ; but ”* 

“ But you thought I should not accept.” 

“ Oh ! no, is that my habit ?” 

“ Ah ! a superior man like you can adopt any habits, M. le 
Prior.” 

Gorenflot looked at Chicot ; he could not tell whether he 
was laughing at him or speaking seriously. Chicot rose. 

“ Why do you rise, M. Briquet ?” asked Gorenflot. 

“ Because I am going away.” 

“ And why are you going away, when you said you would 
breakfast with me ?” 

“ I did not say I would ; I said, perhaps.” 

“You are angry.” 

Chicot laughed. “ I angry !” said he, “ at what ? Because 
you are impudent, ignorant, and rude ? Oh ! my dear mon- 


7 $ 


TI1E FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


sieur, I have known you too long to be angry at these little im- 
perfections. ” 

Gorenflot remained stupefied. 

“ Adieu,” said Chicot 
“ Oh ! do not go.” 

“ My journey will not wait” 

“You travel?” 

“ I have a mission.” 

“ From whom ?” 

“From the king.” 

“ A mission from the king ! then you have seen him again ?” 
“ Certainly.” 

“ And how did he receive you ?” 

“With enthusiasm ; he has a memory, king as he is.” 

“ A mission from the king !” stammered Gorenflot 
“ Adieu,” repeated Chicot. 

Gorenflot rose, and seized him by the hand. “ Come ! let 
us explain ourselves,” said he. 

“ On what ?” 

“ On your susceptibility to-day.” 

“ 1 ! I am the same to-day as on all other days.” 

“ No.” 

“ A simple mirror of the people I am with. You laugh, and 
I laugh ; you are rude, so am I.” 

“ Well ! I confess I was preoccupied.” 

“ Really !” 

“ Can you not be indulgent to a man who has so much work 
on his shoulders ? Governing this priory is like governing a 
province : remember, I command two hundred men.” 

“ Ah ! it is too much indeed for a servant of God.” 

“ Ah ! you are ironical, M. Briquet Have you lost all your 
Christian charity ? I think you are envious, really.” 

“ Envious ! of whom ?” 

“ Why, you say to yourself, Dom Modeste Gorenflot is rising 
— he is on the ascending scale.” 

“ While I am on the descending one, I suppose ?” 

“It is the fault of your false position, M. Briquet.” 

“ M. Gorenflot, do you remember the text, ‘ He who humbles 
himself, shall be exalted ?’ ” 

“Nonsense !” cried Gorenflot. 

* Ah! now he doubts the holy writ ; the heretic !” 

“ Heretic, indeed ! But what do you mean, M. Briquet ?” 


THE TIVO FRIENDS. 


79 

“ Nothing, but that I set out on a journey, and that I have 
come to make you myadieux; so, good-bye.” 

“ You shall not leave me thus.” 

“ I must.” 

“ A friend !” 

“In grandeur one has no friends.” 

“ Chicot !” 

“ I am no longer Chicot ; you reproached me with my false 
position just now.” 

“ But you must not go without eating; it is not wholesome.” 
“Oh ! you live too badly here.” 

“ Badly, here !” murmured the prior, in astonishment. 

“ I think so.” 

“ You had to complain of your last dinner here 
“ I should think so.” 

“ Diable ! and of what ?” 

“The pork cutlets were burned.” 

“Oh!” 

“ The stuffed ears did not crack under your teeth.” 

« Ah !” 

“ The capon was soft.” 

“ Good heavens !” 

“ The soup was greasy.” 

“ Misericorde !” 

“ And then you have no time to give me." 

“ I !” 

“ You said so, did you not ? It only remains for you to oe- 
come a liar.” 

“ Oh ! I can put off my business ; it was only a lady who 
asks me to see her.” 

“ See her, then.” 

“ No, no ! dear M. Chicot, although she has sent me a hun- 
dred bottles of Sicilian wine.” 

“ A hundred bottles !” 

“ I will not receive her, although she is probably some great 
lady. I will receive only you.” 

“ You will do this ?” 

“ To breakfast with you, dear M. Chicot— to repair my wrongs 
towards you.” 

“ Which came from your pride.” 

“ I will humble myself.” 

“ From your idleness.” 


8o 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


“ W ell ! from to-morrow I will join my monks in their exer 
cises.” 

“ What exercises ?” 

“ Of arms.” 

“ Arms !” 

“ Yes; but it will be fatiguing to command.” 

“ Who had this idea ?” 

“ I, it seems.” 

“ You ! impossible !” 

“No. I gave the order to Brother Borromee. 

“ Who is lie ?” 

“ The new treasurer.” 

“ Where does he come from ?” 

“ M. le Cardinal de Guise recommended him.” 

“ In person ?” 

“ No, by letter.” 

“ And it is with him you decided on this ?” 

“ Yes, my friend.” 

“ That is to say, he proposed it and you agreed.” 

“ No, my dear M. Chicot ; the idea was entirely mine/ 

“ And for what end ?” 

“ To arm them. ” 

“ Oh ! pride, pride ! Confess that the idea was his.” 

“ Oh ! I do not know. And yet it must have been mine, 
for it seems that I pronounced a very good Latin text on the 
occasion.” 

“You ! Latin ! Do you remember it?” 

“ Militat spiritu ” 

“ Militat gladio.” 

“ Yes, yes ; that was it.” 

“ Well, you have excused yourself so well that I pardon you. 
You are still my true friend.” 

Gorenflot wiped away a tear. 

“Now let us breakfast, and I promise to be indulgent.” 

“ Listen ! I will tell the cook that if the fare be not regal, 
he shall be placed in confinement ; and we will try some of the 
wine of my penitent.” 

“ I will aid you with my judgment.” 


THE BREAKFAST 


Si 


CHAPTER XX. 

THE BREAKFAST. 

Gorenflot was not long in giving his orders. The cook was 
summoned. 

“ Brother Eusebius,” said Gorenflot, in a severe voice, “listen 
to what my friend M. Briquet is about to tell you. It seems 
that you are negligent, and I hear of grave faults in your last 
soup, and a fatal mistake in the cooking of your ears. Take 
care, brother, take care ; a single step in a wrong direction may 
be irremediable.” 

The monk grew red and pale by turns, and stammered out 
an excuse. 

“ Enough,” said Gorenflot, “ what can we have for breakfast 
to day ?” 

“Eggs fried with cock’s combs.” 

“After ?” 

“ Mushrooms.” 

“ Well ?” 

“ Crabs cooked with Madeira.” 

“Those are all trifles ; tell us of something solid.” 

“A ham, boiled with pistachios.” 

Chicot looked contemptuous. 

" Pardon P cried Eusebius, “ it is cooked in sherry wine. 

Gorenflot hazarded an approving glance towards Chicot 

“ Good ! is it not, M. Briquet ?” said he. 

Chicot made a gesture of half-satisfaction. 

“ And what have you besides ?” 

“ You can have some eels.” 

“ Oh ! we will dispense with the eels,” said Chicot. 

“ I think, M. Briquet,” replied the cook, “that you would re- 
gret it if you had not tasted my eels.” 

“ What ! are they rarities ?” 

“ I nourish them in a particular manner.” 

“ Oh, oh !” 

“ Yes,” added Gorenflot ; “ it appears that the Romans or the 
Greeks — I forget which — nourished their lampreys as Eusebius 
does his eels. He read of it in an old author called Suetonius.” 

a 


TIIE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


Zi 

“ Yes, monsieur, I mince the intestines and livers of fowls and 
game with a little pork, and make a kind of sausage meat, which 
I throw to my eels, and they are kept in soft water, often re- 
newed, in which they become 1 irge and fat. The one which I 
shall offer you to-day weighs nine pounds.” 

“ It must be a serpent !” said Chicot. 

“ It swallowed a chicken at a meal.” 

“ And how will it be dressed ?” 

“ Skinned and fried in anchovy paste, and done with bread 
crumbs ; and I shall have the honour of serving it up with a 
sauce flavoured with garlic and allspice, lemons and mustard.” 

“ Perfect !” cried Chicot. 

Brother Eusebius breathed again. 

“ Then we shall want sweets,” said Gorenflot. 

“ I will invent something that shall please you.” 

“Well, then, I trust to you; be worthy of my confidence.” 

Eusebius bowed and retired. Ten minutes after, they sat 
down, and the programme was faithfully carried out. They 
began like famished men, drank Rhine wine, Burgundy, and 
Hermitage, and then attacked that of the fair lady. 

“What do you think of it ?” asked Gorenflot. 

“ Good, but light. What is your fair petitioner’s name ?” 

“ I do not know; she sent an ambassador.” 

They ate as long as they could, and then sat drinking and 
talking, when suddenly a great noise w r as heard. 

“ What is that ?” asked Chicot. 

“ It is the exercise which commences.” 

“ Without the chief? Your soldiers are badly disciplined, I 
fear.” 

“ Without me ! never !” cried Gorenflot, who had become ex- 
cited with wine. “ That cannot be, since it is I who command 
— I who instruct — and stay, here is Brother Borrom^e, who 
comes to take my orders.” 

Indeed, as he spoke, Borromee entered, throwing on Chicot 
a sharp and oblique* glance. 

“ Reverend prior,” said he, “we only wait for you to examine 
the arms and cuirasses.” 

Cuirasses !” thought Chicot, “ I must see this,” and he rose 
quietly. 

“ You will be present at our manoeuvres ?” said Gorenflot, 
rising in his turn, like a block of marble on legs. “ Your arm, 
my friend ; you shall see some good instruction.” 


BROTHER BORROMLE. 


83 


CHAPTER XXL 

BROTHER BORROMEE. 

When Chicot, susta'ning the reverend prior, arrived in the court- 
yard, he found there two bands of one hundred men each, wait- 
ing for their commander. About fifty among the strongest and 
most zealous had helmets on their heads and long swords hang- 
ing to belts from their waists. Others displayed with pride 
bucklers, on which they loved to rattle an iron gauntlet. 

Brother Borromee took a helmet from the hands of a novice, 
and placed it on his head. While he did so, Chicot looked at 
it and smiled. 

“You have a handsome helmet there, Brother Borromee,” 
said he : “ where did you buy it, my dear prior ?” 

Gorenflot could not reply, for at that moment they were fas- 
tening a magnificent cuirass upon him, which, although spacious 
enough to have covered Hercules Farnese, constrained wofully 
the undulations of the flesh of the worthy prior, who was crying : 

“ Not so tight ! I shall stifle; stop !” 

But Borromee replied, “ It made part of a lot of armour that 
the reverend prior bought yesterday to arm the convent.” 

“ I P said Gorenflot. 

“ Yes ; do you not remember that they brought several cui- 
rasses and casques here, according to your reverence’s orders ?” 

“ It is true,” said Gorenflot. 

“Ventre de biche P thought Chicot; “ my helmet is much 
attached to me, for, after having taken it myself to the Hotel 
Gu’se, it comes here to meet me agai:'..” 

At a sign from Borromee, the monks now formed into lines, 
while Chicot sat down on a bench to look on. 

Gorenflot stood up. “Attention,” whispered Borromee to him. 

Gorenflot drew a gigantic sword from the scabbard, and waving 
it in the air, cried in the voice of a stentor, “Attention P 

“ Your reverence will fatigue yourself, perhaps, in giving the 
orders,” said Borrome'e, softly ; “ if it please you to spare your 
precious health, I will command to-day.” 

“ I should wish it, I am stifling.” 


6—2 


§4 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


Borromee bowed and placed himself at the head of the troop. 

“ What a complaisant servant,’' said Chicot. 

“ He is charming, I told you so.” 

“ I am sure he does the same for you every day.” 

“Oh ! every day. He is as submissive as a slave.” 

“So that you have really nothing to do here — Brother Borro- 
mee acts for you ?” 

“ Oh ! mon Dieu, yes.” 

It was wonderful to see Borromee with his arms in his hands, 
his eye dilated, and his vigorous arm wielding his sword in so 
skilful a manner that one would have thought him a trained 
soldier. Each time that Borromee gave an order, Gorenflot re- 
peated it, adding : 

“ Brother Borromee is right ; but I told you all that yester- 
day. Pass the pike from one hand to the other ! Raise it to 
the level of the eye !” 

“ You are a skilful instructor,” said Chicot. 

“ Yes, I understand it well.” 

“ And Borromee an apt pupil.” 

“ Oh, yes ! he is very intelligent.” 

While the monks went through their exercises, Gorenflot said, 
“You shall see my little Jacques.” 

“ Who is Jacques ?” 

“ A nice lad, calm-looking, but strong, and quick as lightning. 
Look, there he is with a musket in his hand, about to fire.” 

“And he fires well.” 

“ That he does.” 

“ But stay ” 

“ Do you know him ?” 

“ No ; I thought I did, but I was wrong." 

While they spoke, Jacques loaded a heavy musket, and placing 
himself at one hundred yards from the mark, fired, and the ball 
lodged in the centre, amidst the applause of the monks. 

“ That was well done !” cried Chicot. 

“ Thank you, monsieur,” said Jacques, whose cheeks coloured 
with pleasure. 

“ You manage your arms well,” added Chicot 

“ I study, monsieur.” 

“ But he is best at the sword,” said Gorenflot ; “ those who 
understand it, say so, and he is practising from morning till 
night.” 

“ Ah ! let us see,” said Chicot. 


BROTHER BORROMEE . 


85 


“ No one here, except perhaps myself, is capable of fencing 
with him ; but will you try him yourself, monsieur ?” said Bar- 
romee. 

“ I am but a poor bourgeois,” said Chicot ; “ formerly I 
have used my sword like others, but now my legs tremble and 
my arm is weak.” 

“ But you practise still ? ’ 

“ A little,” replied Chicot, with a smile. 

“ However, you, Brother Borromee, who are all muscle and 
tendon, give a lesson to Brother Jacques, I beg, if the prior 
will permit it.” 

“ I shall be delighted,” cried Gorenflot. 

The two combatants prepared for the trial. Borromee had 
the advantage in height and experience. The blood mounted 
to the cheeks of Jacques and animated them with a feverish 
co'-yur. Borromee gradually dropped all appearance of a monk, 
and was completely the maitre d’armes : he accompanied each 
thrust with a counsel or a reproach, but often the vigour and 
quickness of Jacques triumphed over the skill of his teacher, 
who was several times touched. 

When they paused, Chicot said, “Jacques touched six times 
and Borromee nine ; that is well for the scholar, but not so well 
for the master.” 

The flash of Borromee’s eyes showed Chicot that he was 
proud. 

“ Monsieur,” replied he, in a tone which he endeavoured to 
render calm, “ the exercise of arms is a difficult one, especially 
for poor monks.” 

“ Nevertheless,” said Chicot, “ the master ought to be at 
least half as good again as his pupil, and if Jacques were 
calmer, I am certain he would fence as well as you.” 

“ I do not think so,” replied Borromee, biting his lips with 
anger. 

“ Well ! I am sure of it.” 

“ M. Briquet, who is so clever, had better try Jacques him- 
self,” replied Borrome'e, in a bitter tone. 

“Oh! I am old.” 

“ Yes, but learned.” 

“Ah! you mock,” thought Chicot, “but wait.” Then he 
said, “ I am certain, however, that Brother Borromee, like a 
wise master, often let Jacques touch him out of complai- 
sance.” 


S6 THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN, \ 

“ Ah !” cried Jacques, frowning in his turn. 

“ No,” replied Borromee, “ I love Jacques, certainly, but 1 
do not spoil him in that manner. But try yourself, M. Briquet/ 

“ Oh, no.” 

‘‘Come, only one pass.” 

“ Try,” said Gorenflot. 

“ I will not hurt you, monsieur,” said Jacques, “ I have a 
very light hand.” 

“ Dear child,” murmured Chicot, with a strange glance. 
“ Well !” said he, “ since every one wishes it, I will try,” and he 
rose slowly, and prepared himself with about the agility of a 
tortoise. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

THE LESSON. 

Fencing was not a-t that time the science that it is now. The 
swords, sharp on each side, made them strike as often with the 
edge as with the point; besides, the left hand, armed with a 
dagger, was at the same time offensive and defensive, and hence 
resulted a number of slight wounds, which, in a real combat, 
kept up a continual excitement. Fencing, then in its infancy, 
consisted in a crowd of evolutions, in which the actor moved 
continually, and which, on a ground chosen by chance, might 
be continually impeded by its nature. 

It was common to see the fencer throw himself forward, draw 
back again, or jump to the right or left, so that agility, not only 
of the hand, but of the whole body, was necessary. Chicot 
did not appear to have learned in this school, but seemed to 
have forestalled the modern style, of which the superiority and 
grace is in the agility of the hands and immovability of the 
body. He stood erect and firm, with a wrist at once strong 
and supple, and with a sword which seemed a flexible reed 
from the point to the middle of the blade, and an inflexible 
steel from thence to the guard. 

At the very first commencement, Jacques, seeing before him 
this man of bronze, whose wrist alone seemed alive, gave some 


THE LESSON. 


S7 


impatient passes, which merely made Chicot extend his arm, 
and at every opening left by the young man, strike him full on 
the chest. Jacques, red with anger and emulation as this was 
repeated, bounded back, and for ten minutes displayed all the 
resources of his wonderful agility — he flew like a tiger, twisted 
like a serpent, and bounded from right to left ; but Chicot, with 
his calm air and his long arm, seized his time, and putting aside 
his adversary’s sword, still sent his own to the same place, while 
Borromee grew pale with anger. At last, Jacques rushed a 
last time on Chicot, who, parrying his thrust with force, threw 
the poor fellow off his equilibrium, and he fell, while Chicot 
himself remained firm as a rock. 

“You did not tell us you were a pillar,” said Borromde, 
biting his nails with vexation. 

“ I, a poor bourgeois !” said Chicot 

“ But, monsieur, to manage a sword as you do, you must 
have practised enormously.” 

“ Oh ! mon Dieu ! yes, monsieur, I have often held the 
sw r ord, and have always found one thing.” 

“ What is that ?” 

“ That for him who holds it, pride is a bad counsellor and 
anger a bad assistant. Now r , listen, Jacques,” added he : “you 
have a good wrist, but neither legs nor head ; you are quick, 
but you do not reason. There are three essential things in 
arms — first the head, then the hands and legs : with the one 
you can defend yourself, with the others you may conquer, but 
with all three you can always conquer.” 

“Ah! monsieur,” said Jacques, “try Brother Borromee ; I 
should like to see it.” 

“No,” said the treasurer ; “I should be beaten, and I would 
rather confess it than prove it.” 

“ How modest and amiable he is !” said Gorenflot. 

“ On the contrary,” w r hispered Chicot, “ he is stupid vrith 
vanity. At his age I would have given anything for such a 
lesson,” and he sat down again. 

Jacques approached him, and admiration triumphing over 
the shame of defeat : 

“ Will you give me some lessons, M. Briquet ?” said he ; 
“ the prior will permit it, will you not, your reverence ?” 

“With pleasure, my child.” 

“ I do not wish to interfere with your master,” said Chicot, 
bowing to Borromee. 


88 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN, 


“ Oh ! I am not his only master,” said he. “ Neither all the 
honour nor the defeat are wholly due to me.” 

“ Who is the other, then ?” 

“ Oh ! no one !” cried Borromee, fearing he had committed 
an imprudence. 

“Who is he, Jacques ?” asked Chicot. 

“ I remember,” said Gorenflot ; “ he is a little fat man who 
comes here sometimes and drinks well.” 

“ I forget his name,” said Borromee. 

“ I know it,” said a monk who was standing by. “ It is 
Bussy Leclerc.” 

“ Ah ! a good sword,” said Chicot. 

Jacques reiterated his request. 

“ I cannot teach you,” said Chicot. “ I taught myself by 
reflection and practice ; and I advise you to do the same.” 

Gorenflot and Chicot now returned to the house. 

“ I hope,” said Gorenflot, with pride, “ that this is a house 
worth something, and well managed.” 

“ Wonderful ! my friend ; and when I return tfom my 
mission ” 

“Ah ! true, dear M. Chicot ; let us speak of your mission.” 

“ So much the more willingly, that I have a message to send 
to the king before I go.” 

“ To the king, my dear friend ! You correspond with the 
king?” 

“ Directly.” 

“ And you want a messenger ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Will you have one of our monks ? It would be an honour 
to the priory.” 

“ Willingly.” 

“ Then you are restored to favour ?” 

“ More than ever.” 

“Then,” said Gorenflot, “you can tell the king all that we 
are doing here in his favour.” 

“ I shall not fail to do so.” 

“ Ah ! my dear Chicot,” cried Gorenflot, who already be- 
lieved himself a bishop. 

“ But first I have two requests to make.” 

“ Speak.” 

“ First, money, which the king will restore to youd 

“ Money ! I have my coffers fulL” 


the lesson. 


89 


“ Ma foi ! you are lucky.” 

“Will you have 1,000 crowns?” 

“No, that is far too much ; I am modest in my tastes, 
humble in my desires, and my title of ambassador does not 
make me proud ; therefore 100 crowns will suffice.” 

“ Here they are ; and the second thing ?” 

“An attendant.” 

“ An attendant !” 

“Yes, to accompany me ; I love society.” 

“ Ah ! my friend, if I were but free, as formerly.” 

“ But you are not.” 

“ Greatness enslaves me,” murmured Gorenflot. 

“ Alas !” said Chicot, “ one cannot do everything at once. 
But not being able to have your honourable company, my dear 
prior, I will content myself with that of the little Jacques ; he 
pleases me.” 

“You are right, Chicot, he is a rare lad.” 

“ I am going to take him 250 leagues, if you will permit it.” 

“He is yours, my friend.” 

The prior struck a bell, and when the servant appeared said, 
“ Let Brother Jacques come here, and also our messenger.” 

Ten minutes after both appeared at the door. 

“Jacques,” said Gorenflot, “I give you a special mission.” 

“ Me !” cried the young man, astonished. 

“ Yes, you are to accompany M. Robert Briquet on a long 
journey.” 

“ Oh !” cried he, enthusiastically, “ that will be delightful. 
We shall fight every day — shall we not, monsieur ?” 

“ Yes, my child.” 

“ And I may take my arquebuse ?” 

“ Certainly.” 

Jacques bounded joyfully from the room. 

“ As to the message, I beg you to give your orders. Advance, 
Brother Panurge.” 


90 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN* 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

THE PENITENT. 

Panurge advanced. He looked intelligent, but like a fox. 

“ Do you know the Louvre ?” said Chicot. 

“Yes, monsieur.” 

“And in the Louvre a certain Henri de Valois?” 

“ The king?” 

“ People generally call him so.” 

“ Is it to him that I am to go ?” 

“Just so. You will ask to speak to him.” 

“ Will they let me ?” 

“ Yes, till you come to his valet de chambre. Your frock is 
a passport, for the king is very religious.” 

“ And what shall I say to the valet de chambre 
“ Say you are sent by the shade.” 

“ What shade ?” 

‘Curiosity is a vice, my brother.” 

“ Pardon !” 

“ Say then that you want the letter.” 

“What letter?” 

“ Again !” 

“ Ah ! true.” 

“ You will add that the shade will wait for it, going slowly 
along the road to Charenton.” 

“ It is on that road, then, that I am to join you ?” 

“ Exactly.” 

As Panurge went out, Chicot thought he saw some one 
listening at the door, but could not be sure. He fancied it 
was Borromee. 

“ Where do you go ?” asked Gorenflot. 

“ Towards Spain.” 

“ How do you travel ?” 

“ Oh ! anyhow ; on foot, on horseback, in a carriage — just as 
it happens.” 

“ Jacques will be good company for you.” 


THE PENITENT. 


9i 


“ Thanks, my good friend, I have now, I think, only to make 
my adieux.” 

“ Adieu ; I will give you my benediction.” 

“ Bah ! it is useless between us ” 

“You are right; but it does for strangers,” and they em- 
braced. 

“Jacques !” called the prior, “Jacques 1” 

Borromee appeared. 

“ Brother Jacques,” repeated the prior. 

“Jacques is gone.” 

“ What ! gone,” cried Chicot. 

“ Did you not wish some one to go to the Louvre ?” 

“ Yes ; but it was Panurge.” 

“ Oh ! stupid that I am,” cried Borromee, “ I understood it 
to be Jacques.” 

Chicot frowned, but Borromee appeared so sorry that it was 
impossible to say much. 

“ I will wait, then,” said he, “till Jacques returns.” 

Borromee bowed, frowning in his turn. “Apropos,” said 
he, “ I forgot to announce to your reverence that the unknown 
lady has arrived and desires to speak to you.” 

“ Is she alone ?” asked Gorenflot. 

“ No ; she has a squire with her.” 

“ Is she young ?” 

Borromee lowered his eyes. “ She seems so,” said he.. 

“ I will leave you,” said Chicot, “and wait in a neighbouring 
room. ” 

“It is far from here to the Louvre, monsieur, and Jacques 
may be long, or they may hesitate to confide an important letter 
to a child.” 

“ You make these reflections rather late,” replied Chicot, 
“ however, I will go on the road to Charenton and you can 
send him after me.” And he turned to the staircase. 

“ Not that way, if you please,” said Borromee, “ the lady is 
coming up, and she does not wish to meet any one.” 

“ You are right,” said Chicot, smiiing, “ I will take the little 
staircase.” 

“ Do you know the way ?” 

“ Perfectly.” And Chicot went out through a cabinet which 
led to another room, from which led the secret staircase. The 
room was full of armour, swords, muskets, and pistols. 

“ They hide Jacques from me,” thought Chicot, “ and they 




92 TTiE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 

hide the lady, therefore of course I ought to do exactly the 
opposite of what they want me to do. I will wait for the return 
of Jacques, and I will watch the mysterious lady. Oh ! here is 
a fine shirt of mail thrown into a corner; it is much too small 
for the prior, and would fit me admirably. I will borrow it 
from Gorenflot, and give it to him again, when I return.” And 
he quietly put it on under his doublet. He had just finished 
when Borromee entered. 

Chicot pretended to be admiring the arms. 

“Is monsieur seeking some arms to suit him?” asked 
Borromee. 

“ I ! men Dieu ! what do I want with arms ?” 

“You use them so well.” 

“ Theory, all theory ; I may use my arms well, but the heart 
of a soldier is always wanting in a poor bourgeois like me. But 
time passes, and Jacques cannot be long; I will go and wait for 
him at the Croix Faubin.” 

“ I think that will be best.” 

“ Then you will tell him as soon as he comes ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ And send him after me ?” 

“ I will not fail.” 

“ Thanks, Brother Borromee ; I am enchanted to have made 
your acquaintance.” 

He went out by the little staircase, and Borromee locked the 
door behind him. 

“ I must see the lady,” thought Chicot. 

He went out of the priory and went on the road he had 
named ; then, when out of sight, he turned back, crept along a 
ditch and gained, unseen, a thick hedge which extended before 
the priory. Here he waited to see Jacques return or the lady 
go out. 


THE AMBUSH l 


$ 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

THE AMBUSH. 

Chicot made a slight opening through the hedge, that he 
might see those who came and went. The road was almost 
deserted as far as he could see ; there was no one but a man 
poorly clothed measuring the ground wfith a long, pointed 
stick. Chicot had nothing to do, and therefore was preparing 
to watch this man, when a more important object attracted his 
attention. 

The window of Gorenflot’s room opened with folding-doors 
on to a balcony, and Chicot saw them open, and Gorenflot 
come out, with his most gallant manner and winning smile, 
leading a lady almost hidden under a mantle of velvet and fur. 

“ Oh !” thought Chicot, “ here is the penitent. She looks 
young ; it is very odd, but I find resemblances in every one I 
see. And here comes the squire ; as for him, there is no 
mistake ; I know him, and if he be Mayneville, — ventre de 
biche ! — why should not the lady be Madame de Montpensier ? 
And, morbleu ! that woman is the duchess !” 

After a moment, he saw the pale head of Borromee behind 
them. 

“ What are they about?” thought Chicot; “does the duchess 
want to board with Gorenflot ?” 

At this moment Chicot saw M. de Mayneville make a sign 
to some one outside. Chicot looked round, but there w ? as no 
one to be seen but the man measuring. It w’as to him, how r - 
ever, that the sign w f as addressed, for he had ceased measuring, 
and was looking towards the balcony. Borromee began also 
to gesticulate behind Mayneville, in a manner unintelligible to 
Chicot, but apparently clear to this man, for he went further 
off, and stationed himself in another place, where he stopped at 
a fresh sign. Then he began to run quickly towards the gate 
of the priory, while M. de Mayneville held his watch in his 
hand. 

“ Diable !” said Chicot, “ this is all very odd.” 


94 


THE FORTY’ FIVE GUARDS ME AT. 


As the man passed him, he recognised Nicholas Poulain, the 
man to whom he had sold his armour the day before. Shortly 
after, they all re-entered the room and shut the window, and 
then the duchess and her squire came out of the priory and 
went towards the litter which waited for them. Gorenflot ac- 
companied them to the door, exhausting himself in bows and 
salutations. The curtains of the litter were still open, when a 
monk, in whom Chicot recognised Jacques, advanced from the 
Porte St. Antoine, approached, and looked earnestly into it. 
The duchess then went away, and Nicholas Poulain was follow- 
ing, when Chicot called out from his hiding-place, — 

“Come here, if you please.” 

Poulain started, and turned his head. 

“ Do not seem to notice, M. Nicholas Pouhin,” said Chicot. 

The lieutenant started again. “ Who are you, and what do 
you want ?” asked he. 

“ I am a friend, new, but intimate ; what I want will take 
long to explain ; come here to me.” 

“ To yoi ?” 

“ Yes ; here in the ditch.” 

“What for?” 

“You shall know when you come.” 

“ But ” 

“ Come and sit down here, without appearing to notice 
me.” 

“ Monsieur !” 

“ Oh ! M. Robert Briquet has the right to be exacting.” 

“ Robert Briquet !” cried Poulain, doing as he was desired. 

“ That is right ; it seems you were taking measures in the 
road.” 

“ I !” 

“Yes; there is nothing surprising that you should be a 
surveyor, especially as you acted under the eyes of such great 
people.” 

“Great people ! I do not understand.” 

“ What ! you did not know ?” 

“ What do you mean ?” 

“You did not know who that lady and gentlemen on the 
balcony were ?” 

“ I declare ” 

“ Oh ! how fortunate I am to be able to enlighten you. 
Only imagine, M. Poulain ; you had for admirers Madame de 


THE A MB EM/. 


95 


Montpensier and M. de Mayneville. Do not go away. If a 
still more illustrious person — the king — saw you ” 

“ Ah ! M. Briquet ” 

“ Never mind ; I am only anxious for your good.” 

“ But what harm have I done to the king, or to you, or any- 
body ?” 

“ Dear M. Poulain, my ideas may be wrong, but it seems to 
me that the king would not approve of his lieutenant of the 
Provostry acting as surveyor for M. de Mayneville ; and that 
he might also take it ill that you should omit in your daily 
report the entrance of Madame de Montpensier and M. de 
Mayneville, yesterday, into his good city of Paris.” 

“ M. Briquet, an omission is not an offence, and his majesty 
is too good ” 

“ M. Poulain, I see clearer than you, and 1 see ” 

“ What ?” 

“ A gallows.” 

“ M. Briquet !” 

“ And more— a new cord, four soldiers at the four cardinal 
points, a number of Parisians around, and a certain lieutenant 
qf my acquaintance at the end of the cord.” 

Nicholas Poulain trembled so that he shook the hedge. 
“ Monsieur !” cried he, clasping his hands. 

“ But I am your friend, dear M. Poulain, and I will give you 
a counsel.” 

“ A counsel ?” 

“ Yes ; and very easy to follow. Go at once, you under- 
stand, to ” 

“Whom ?” 

“ Let me think. To M. d’Epernon.” 

“ M. d’Epernon, the king's friend ?” 

“ Take him aside, and tell him all about this.” 

“ This is folly.” 

“No, it is wisdom. It is clear that if I denounce you as 
the man of the cuirasses and measures, they will hang you ; but 
if, on the contrary, you disclose all, with a good grace, they 
will reward you. You do not appear convinced, however.' 
Well ! that will give me the trouble of returning to the 
Louvre, but I do not mind doing that for you,” and he began 
to li e 

“ No, no ; stay here, I will go.” 

“ Good ! But you understand, no subterfuges, or to-morrow 


9 6 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


I shall send a little note to the king, whose intimate friend I 
have the honour to be, so that if you are not hung till the day 
after to-morrow, you will only be hung the higher.” 

“ I will go ; but you abuse your position.” 

“ Oh ! M. Poulain, you were a traitor five minutes ago, 
and I make you the saviour of your country. Now, go 
quickly, for I am in a hurry. The Hotel d’Epernon — do not 
forget.” 

Nicholas Poulain ran off, with a despairing look. 

“ Ah ! it was time,” said Chicot, “ for some one is leaving 
the priory. But it is not Jacques ; that fellow is half as tall 
again.” 

Chicot then hastened to the Croix Faubin, where he had 
given the rendezvous. The monk, who was there to meet him, 
was a giant in height; his monk’s robe, hastily thrown on, 
did not hide his muscular limbs, and his face bore anything 
but a religious expression. His arms were as long as Chicot’s 
own, and he had a knife in his belt. 

As Chicot approached, he turned and said, “Are you M. 
Robert Briquet ?” 

“ I am.” 

“ Then I have a letter for you from the reverend prior.” 

Chicot took the letter, and read as follows : 

“ My dear friend, I have reflected since we parted ; it 
is impossible for me to let the lamb confided to me go amongst 
the wolves of the world. I mean, you understand, our litttle 
Jacques, who has fulfilled your message to the king. Instead 
of him, who is too young, I send you a good and worthy 
brother of our order; his manners are good, and his humour 
innocent, and I am sure you will like him. I send you my 
benediction. Adieu, dear friend.” 

“ What fine writing,” said Chicot ; “ I will wager it is the 
treasurer’s.” 

“ It was Brother Borromee who wrote it,” said the Goliath. 

“ In that case you will return to the priory, my friend.” 

“ I ?” 

“ Yes ; and tell his reverence that I have changed my mind, 
and intend to travel alone.” 

“ What ! you will not take me, monsieur ?” said the man, 
with astonishment, mixed with menace. 

“ No, my friend.” 

" And why, if you please ?” 


THE GUISES . 


97 


“ Because I must be economical, and you would eat too 
much. ” 

“Jacques eats as much I do.” 

“ Yes, but Jacques was a monk.” 

“And what am I ?” 

“You, my friend, are a gendarme, or a foot soldier.” 

“ What do you mean ? Do you not see my monk’s robe ?” 

“ The dress does not make the monk, my friend ; tell Brother 
Borromee that, if you please.” 

The giant disappeared, grumbling, like a beaten hound. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

THE GUISES. 

On the evening of the same day on which Chicot sat off for 
Navarre, we shall find again, in a large room at the Hotel Guise, 
the person who, disguised as a page, had entered Paris behind 
Carmainges, and who was also, as we know, the penitent of 
Gorenflot. On this occasion her sex was disclosed, and, ele- 
gantly dressed, with her hair glittering with precious stones, she 
was waiting impatiently for some one. 

At last a horse’s step was heard, and the usher almost imme- 
diately announced M. le Due de Mayenne. Madame de Mont- 
pensier ran to her brother so hastily, that she forgot to proceed 
on the point of the right foot, as was her habit, in order to 
conceal her lameness. 

“ Are you alone, brother ?” asked she. 

“ Yes, my sister.” 

“ But Henri ; where is Henri ? Do you know that every- 
one expects him here ?” 

“ Henri has nothing to do here, and plenty to do in Flanders 
and Picardy. We have work to do there, and why should we 
leave it to come here, where our work is done ?” 

“ But where it will be quickly undone, if you do not hasten.” 

“ Bah !” 


7 


9S 


THE FORTY- FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


“ Bah ! if you like. I tell you the citizens will be put off no 
longer; they insist upon seeing their Duke Henri.” 

“ They shall see him at the right time. And Salcede ?” 

« Is dead.” 

“ Without speaking ?” 

“ Without uttering a word.” 

“Good ! and the arming?” 

“ Finished. ” 

“And Paris ?” 

“ Is divided into sixteen quarters.” 

“ And each quarter has the chief pointed out ?” 

« Yes.” 

“ Then let us live in peace, and so I shall say to our good 
bourgeoisie.” 

“ They will not listen to you.” 

“ Bah !” 

“ I tell you they are furious.” 

“ My sister, you judge others by your own impatience. 
What Henri says must be done ; and he says we are to remain 
quiet.” 

“ What is to be done, then ?” asked the duchess impatiently. 
“ What do you wish to do ?” 

“ Firstly, to take the king.” 

“ That is your fixed idea ; I do not say it is bad, if it could 
be done, but think how often we have failed already.” 

“ Times are changed, the king has no longer defenders.” 

“No ; except the Swiss, Scotch, and French guards.” 

“My brother, when you wish it, I will show you the king on 
the road with only two lacqueys.” 

“ I have heard that a hundred times, and never seen it once.” 
“ You will see it if you stay here only three days.” 

“ Another project : tell me what it is.” 

“ You will laugh at a woman’s idea.” 

At this moment, M. de Mayneville was announced. “ My ac- 
complice,” said she : “ let him enter.” 

“ One word, monseigneur,” said he to M. de Mayenne as he 
entered ; “ they suspect your arrival at the Louvre.” 

“ How so ?” 

“ I was conversing with the captain of the guard at St. Ger- 

mainTAuxerrois, when two Gascons passed ” 

“ Do you know them ?” 

“ No ; they were quite newly dressed. ‘ Cap de Bious !’ said 


THE GUISES. 


99 


one, c you have a magnificent doublet, but it will not render you 
so much service as your cuirass of yesterday.’ * Bah !’ said the 
other ; 4 however heavy the sword of M. de Mayenne may be, it 
will do no more harm to this satin than to my cuirass,’ and then 
he went on in a series of bravadoes, which showed that they 
knew you were near.” 

“And to whom did these men belong?” 

“ I do not know ; they talked so loudly, that some passers- 
by approached, and asked if you were really coming. They 
were about to reply, when a man approached, whom I think 
was De Loignac, and touched them on the shoulder. He said 
some words in a low voice, and they looked submissive, ai d 
accompanied him, so that I know no more ; but be on your 
guard.” 

“ You did not follow them ?” 

“ Yes, but from afar. They went towards the Louvre, and 
disappeared behind the Hotel des Meubles.” 

“ I have a very simple method of reply,” said the duke. 

“ What ?” 

“ To go and pay my respects to the king to-night.” 

“ To the king ?” 

“ Certainly ; I have come to Paris — he can have nothing to 
say against that.” 

‘ The idea is good,” said Mayneville. 

“It is imprudent,” said the duchess. 

“ It is indispensable, sister, if they indeed suspect my arrival. 
Besides, it was the advice of Henri to go at once and present tc 
the king the respects of the family ; that once done, I am free, 
and can receive whom I please.” 

“ The members of the committee, for example, who expect 
you.” 

“ I will receive them at the Hotel St. Denis on my return 
from the Louvre. You will wait for us, if you please, my 
sister.” 

“ Here?” 

“ No ; at the Hotel St. Denis, where I have left my equipages. 
I shall be there in two hours.” 


L. of C. 


7—2 


100 


THE FORTY -FIVE GUARDSMEN . 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

THE LOUVRE. 

That same day, about noon, the king came out of his cabinet 
and called for M. d’Epernon. The duke, when he came, found 
the king attentively examining a young monk. 

The king took D Epernon aside, “ Look, what an odd-look- 
ing monk,” said he. 

“ Does your majesty think so ? — I think him very ordinary.” 

“ Really !” Then to the monk, the king said, “ What is your 
name ?” 

Brother Jacques, sire.” 

“ Your family name ?” 

“ Clement.” 

“ Good. You have performed your commission very well.” 

“ What commission, sire ?*' said the duke, with his wonted 
familiarity. 

“ Nothing !” said Henri. “It is a little secret between me 
and some one you do not know. ’ 

“ How strangely you look at the lad, sire ! you embarrass 
him.” 

“ It is true ; I know not why, but it seems to me that I have 
seen him before ; perhaps it was in a dream. Go, my child ; I 
will send the letter to him who asks for it ; be easy. D’Epernon, 
give him ten crowns.” 

“ Thanks, sire,” said the monk. 

“ You did not say that as if you meant it,” said D’Epernon, 
who did not understand a monk despising ten crowns. 

“ I would rather have one of those beautiful Spanish knives 
on the wall,” said Jacques. 

“ What ! you do not prefer money ?” 

“ I have made a vow of poverty.” 

“Give him a knife, then, and let him go, Lavalette,” said the 
king. 

The duke chose one of the least rich and gave it to him. 


THE LOUVRE. 


101 

Jacques took it, quite joyful to possess such a beautiful 
weapon. 

When he was gone, the king said to D’Epernon, “ Duke, have 
you among your Forty -five two or three men who can ride ?” 

“Twelve, at least, sire; and in a month all will be good 
horsemen.” 

“ Then choose two, and let them come to me at once.” 

The duke went out, and calling De Loignac, said to him, 
“ Choose me two good horsemen, to execute a commission for 
his majesty. ” 

De Loignac went to the gallery where they were lodged, and 
called M. de Carmainges and M. de St. Maline. They soon 
appeared, and were conducted to the duke, who presented them 
to the king, who dismissed the duke. 

“ You are of my Forty five, then?” said he to the young men. 

“ I have that honour, sire,” said St. Maline. 

“ And you, monsieur ?” 

“ And I, also, sire,” replied Carmainges ; “ and I am devoted 
to your majesty’s service, as much as any one in the world.” 

“ Good ! Then mount your horses, and take the road to 
Tours — do you know it ?” 

“ We will inquire.” 

“ Go by Charenton.” 

“Yes, sire.” 

“ And proceed till you overtake a man travelling alone.” 

“ Will your majesty describe him ?” said St. Maline. 

“ He has long arms and legs, and has a large sword by his 
side.” 

“ May we know his name, sire ?” asked Carmainges. 

“ He is called 1 the Shaded ” 

“We will ask the name of every traveller we see, sire.” 

“ And we will search the hotels.” 

“When you find him, give him this letter.” 

Both the young men held out their hands. 

The king was embarrassed. “ What is your name ?” said he. 

“ Ernanton de Carmainges, sire.” 

“And yours ?” 

“ Rene de St. Maline.” 

“ M. de Carmainges, you shall carry the letter, and you, M. 
de St. Maline, shall deliver it.” 

Ernanton took the precious deposit, and was going to place 


102 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN , i 


it in his doublet, when St. Maline stopped him, kissed the letter, 
and then returned it to Ernanton. 

This made Henri smile. “Come, gentlemen,” said he, “I 
see I shall be well served.” 

“ Is this all, sire ?” 

“ Yes, gentlemen ; only our last recommendation. This let- 
ter is more precious than the life of a man — for your heads, do 
not lose it ; give it secretly to the Shade, who will give you a re- 
ceipt for it, which you will bring back to me ; and, above all, 
travel as though it were on your own affairs. Go.” 

The two young men went out— Ernanton full of joy, and St. 
Maline filled with jealousy. M. d’Epernon waited for them, 
and wished to question them, but Ernanton replied : 

“ M. le Due, the king did not authorise us to speak.” 

They went to the stables, wh^n the kings huntsman gave 
them two strong horses. M. d’Epernon would have followed 
them, but at that moment he was told that a man much wished 
to speak to him at once. 

“ Who is he ?” he asked. 

“The lieutenant of the provost of the He de France.” 

“ Parfandious ! am I sheriff or provost ?” 

“ No, monsieur ; but you are a friend of the king, and, as 
such, I beg you to hear me,” said a humble voice at his side. 

The duke turned. Near him was a man. bowing per- 
petually. 

“ Who are you ?” asked the duke. 

“Nicholas Poulain, monsieur.” 

“ And you wish to speak to me ?” 

“ I beg for that favour.” 

“ I have no time.” 

“Not even to hear a secret?” 

“ I hear a hundred every day.” 

“ But this concerns the life of his majesty,” said Poulain, in 
a low voice. 

“ Oh ! oh ! then come into my cabinet” 


THE REVELATION 


103 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

THE REVELATION. 

M. D’Epernon, in traversing the antechamber, addressed him- 
self to one of the gentlemen who stood there. 

“ What is your name, monsieur ?” said he. 

“ Pertinax de Montcrabeau, monsieur.” 

“Well, M. de Montcrabeau, place yourself at that door, and 
let no one enter.” 

“ Yes, M. le Due ;” and M. Pertinax, who was sumptuously 
dressed, with a blue satin doublet and orange stockings, obeyed. 
Nicholas Poulain followed the duke into his cabinet. 

“ Now let us hear your conspiracy,” said the duke. 

“ Oh ! M. le Due, it concerns the most frightful crimes.” 

“ They wish to kill me, I suppose.” 

“ It does not concern you, monsieur; it is the king. They 
wish to carry him off.” 

“ Oh ! again that old story,” replied the duke, disdainfully. 

“ This time the thing is serious, M. le Due.” 

“ On what day do they intend to do it ?” 

“The first time that his majesty goes to Vincennes in his 
litter.” 

“ How will they do it ?” 

“ By killing his tw r o attendants.” 

“ And who will do it ?” 

“ Madame de Montpensier.” 

D’Epernon began to laugh. “That poor duchess; what things 
are attributed to her !” 

“ Less than she projects, monsieur.” 

“ And she occupies herself with that at Soissons ?” 

“ No ; she is in Paris.” 

“ In Paris !” 

“ I can answer for it.” 

“ Have you seen her ?” 

“ Yes.” 


104 


THE FORTY- FIVE GUARDSMEN, \ 


“ You thought you did V 

“ I have had the honour of speaking to her.” 

“ The honour !” 

‘I am wrong; the misfortune.” 

“ But, my dear lieutenant, the duchess cannot carry off the 
king.” 

“ With her associates, of course.” 

“ And where will she be when this takes place ?” 

“ At a window of the Jacobin Priory, which is, as you know, 
on the road to Vincennes.” 

“ What the devil do you tell me ?” 

“ The truth, monsieur ; all is prepared to stop the litter at the 
gate of the priory.” 

“ And who made the preparations ?” 

“Alas! ” 

“ Finish quickly.” 

“ I did, monsieur.” 

D’Epernon started back. “ You, who denounce them !” 

“ Monsieur, a good servant should risk all in the service of 
the king.” 

“ Mordieu ! you risk hanging.” 

“ I prefer death to infamy, or to the death of the king, there- 
fore I came; and I thought, M. le Due, that you, the fiiend 
of the king, would not betray me, and would turn my news 
to good account.” 

The duke looked fixedly at Poulain. “ There must be more 
in it,” said he; “resolute as the duchess is, she would not 
attempt such an enterprise alone.” 

“ She expects her brother.” 

“The Duke Henri?” 

“ No, monsieur ; only the Due de Mayenne.” 

“ Ah ! good,” said D’Epernon ; “ now I must set to work to 
counteract these fine projects.” 

“ Doubtless, monsieur; it was for that I came.” 

“ If you have spoken the truth you shall be rewarded.” 

“ Why should I lie, monsieur ; where is my interest — I, who 
eat the king’s bread ? If you do not believe me, I will go to 
the king himself.” 

“No, parfandious, you shall not go to the king; you shall 
have to deal with me, alone.” 

“ I only said it because you seemed to hesitate.” 



Madame de Montpensier, 




THE REVELATION. 


105 


“ No, I do not hesitate ; and, first, here are a thousand crowns 
for you, and you shall keep this secret between you and me.” 

“ I have a family, monsieur.” 

“Well ! a thousand crowns, parfandious.” 

“ If they knew in Lorraine that I had spoken, each word 
would cost me a pint of blood ; and in case of any misfortune, 
my family must be able to live, therefore I accept the thousand 
crowns.” 

The duke approached a coffer. Poulain thought it was tor 
the money, and held out his hand, but he only drew out a little 
book and wrote, “ Three thousand livres to M. Nicholas Pou- 
lain.” — “ It is as if you had them,” said he. 

Nicholas bowed, and looked puzzled. 

“ Then it is agreed ?” said the duke. 

“ What, monsieur ?” 

“ That you will continue to instruct me ?” 

Nicholas hesitated. 

“ What ! has your noble devotion vanished already ?” 

“ No, monsieur.” 

“ Then I may count on you ?” 

“ You may.” 

“ And I alone know this ?” 

“You alone.” 

“ Now you may go, my friend ; and, parfandious, let M. de 
Mayenne look to himself.” 

When D’Epernon returned to the king he found him playing 
at cup and ball. D’Epernon assumed a thoughtful air, but the 
king did not remark it. However, as the duke remained per- 
fectly silent, the king raised his head and said, “ Well, Lava- 
lette, what is the matter, are you dead ?” 

“ I wish I were,” replied D’Epernon, “ and I should not see 
what I do see.” 

“ What, my cup and ball ?” 

“ Sire, in a time of great peril the subject may De alarmed 
for the safety of his master.” 

‘ What ! again perils ; devil take you, duke.” 

“Then you are ignorant of what is passing?” 

“ Ma foi, perhaps.” 

“ Your most cruel enemies surround you at this moment” 

“ Bah ! w T ho are they ?” 

“First, the Duchesse de Montpensier.” 


io6 


THE FORTY- FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


“ Yes, that is true ; she came to see Salcede ; but what is 
that to me ?” 

“ You knew it, then ?” 

“You see I did.” 

“ But that M. de Mayenne was here ?” 

“ Yes, since yesterday evening.” 

“ What ! this secret ?” cried D’Epernon, with a disagreeable 
surprise. 

“Are there, then, ary secrets from the king? You are 
zealous, dear Lavalette, bu: you are slow. This news would 
have been good at four o’clock yesterday, but to-day ” 

“ Well, sire, to-day ?” 

“ It comes too late, you will agree ?” 

“ Still too soon, sire, it seems, since vou will not listen to 
me.” 

“ I have been listening for half-an-hour.” 

“ You are -menaced — they lay ambushes for you.” 

“ Well, yesterday you gave me a guard, and assured me that 
my immortality was secured. Are vour Forty-five no longer 
worth anything?” 

“Your majesty shall see.” 

“ I should not be sorry, duke ; when shall I see y ’ 

“ Sooner perhaps than you think.” 

“ Ah ! you want to frighten me.” 

“ You shall see, sire. Apropos, when do you go to Vin- 
cennes ?” 

“ On Saturday.” 

“ That is enough, sire.” 


D'Epernon bowed and withdrew. 


TWO FRIENDS . 


107 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

TWO FRIENDS. 

We will now follow the two young men sent by the king. 
Scarcely on horseback, Ernanton and St. Maline, determined 
that one should not get before the other, nearly crushed each 
other in the gateway. The face of St. Maline became purple, 
and that of Ernanton pale. 

“ You hurt me, monsieur,” cried the former ; “ do you wish 
to crush me ?” 

“ You also hurt me, only I did not complain.” 

“ You wish to give a lesson, I believe ?” 

“ I wish to give you nothing.” 

“Ah !” cried St. Maline, “ pray repeat that.” 

“ You are seeking a quarrel, are you not ?” replied Ernanton, 
quietly ; “ so much the worse for you.” 

“ And why should I wish to quarrel ? I do not know you,” 
answered St. Maline, disdainfully. 

“ You know me perfectly, monsieur, because at home my 
house is but two leagues from yours, and I am well known 
there, being of an old family ; but you are furious at seeing me 
in Paris, when you thought that you alone were sent for ; also, 
because the king gave me the letter to carry.” 

“ Well,” said St. Maline, “ it may be true but there is one 
result.” 

“ What is it?” 

“ That I do not like to be near you.” 

“ Go away then; pardieu, I do not want to keep you.” 

“ On the contrary, I understand perfectly ; you would like 
to take the letter from me and carry it yourself ; but unfortu- 
nately you must kill me first.” 

“ And who tells you that I do not wish to do that ?” 

“ To desire and to do are two different things.” 

“ Descend with me to the banks of the water, and you will 
see that with me they are the same.” 


loS TIIE FORTY- FIVE GUARDSMEN. 

“ My dear monsieur, when the king gives me a letter to carry, 
I carry it.” 

“ I will tear it from you by force.” 

“ You will not force me, I hope, to shoot you like a 
dog.” 

*• You !” 

“ Yes ; I have a pistol, and you have not” 

“You shall pay for this.” 

“ I trust so, after my commission is over ; but, meanwhile, I 
beg you to observe that as we belong to the king, it is setting 
a bad example to quarrel.” 

St. Maline was furious, he bit his fingers with rage. As they 
crossed the Rue St. Antoine, Ernanton saw a litter with a lady 
in it. “ My page !” cried he, and he rode towards it ; but she 
did not seem to recognise him, and passed on. 

The young men now rode on without speaking. St. Maline 
soon discovered, to his chagrin, that his horse was not as good 
as Ernanton’s, and could hardly keep pace with him. This 
annoyed him so much that he began to quarrel with his horse, 
and to fret him so perpetually with the spur, that at last the 
animal started off and made for the river Bievre, where he 
got rid of his rider by throwing him in. One might have 
heard half a mile off the imprecations of St. Maline, although 
he was half stifled by the water. By the time he scrambled 
out his horse had got some little way off. He himself was 
wet and muddy, and his face bleeding with scratches, and he 
felt sure that it was useless to try and catch it; and to com- 
plete his vexation, he saw Ernanton going down a cross-road 
which he judged to be a short cut. 

He climbed up the banks of the river, but now could see 
neither Ernanton nor his own horse. But while he stood 
there, full of sinister thoughts towards Ernanton, he saw him 
reappear from the cross-road, leading the runaway horse, 
which he had made a detour to catch. At this sight St. 
Maline was full of joy and even of gratitude; but gradually 
his face clouded again as he thought of the superiority of 
Ernanton over himself, for he knew that in the same situa- 
tion he should not even have thought of acting in a similar 
manner. 

He stammered out thanks, to which Ernanton paid no 
attention, then furiously seized the reins of his horse and 
mounted again. They rode on silently till about half-past 


TWO FRIENDS. 


109 


two, when they saw a man walking with a dog by his side. Er- 
nanton passed him ; but St. Maline, hoping to be more clever, 
rode up to him and said, “Traveller, do you expect some- 
thing?” 

The man looked at him. Certainly his aspect was not 
agreeable. His face still bore marks of anger, and the mud 
half dried on his clothes and the blood on his cheeks, and his 
hand extended more in menace than interrogation, all seemed 
very sinister to the traveller. 

“ If I expect something,” said he, “ it is not some one ; and 
if I expect some one, it is not you.” 

“You are impolite,” slid St Maline, giving way to the 
arger that he had restrained so long; and as he spoke he 
raised his hand armed with a cane to strike the traveller, but 
he, with his stick, struck St. Maline on the shoulder, while the 
dog rushed at him, tearing his clothes, as well as his horse’s 
legs. 

The horse, irritated by the pain, rushed furiously on. St. 
Maline could not stop him for some time, but he kept his seat. 
They passed thus before Ernanton, who took no notice. At 
last St. Maline succeeded in quieting his horse, and they rode 
on again in silence till Ernanton said : 

“ There is he whom we seek waiting for us.” 


1 10 


TI/E FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

# 

ST. MALINE. 

Ernanton was not deceived; the man he saw was really 
Chicot. He on his side had seen the cavaliers coming, and 
suspecting that it was for him that they came, waited for them. 

Ernanton and St. Maline looked at each other. 

“ Speak, monsieur, if you wish,” said Ernanton to his 
adversary. 

St. Maline was suffocated by this courtesy, he could not 
speak, he could only bend his head ; then Ernanton, advancing, 
said to Chicot — 

“ Monsieur, would it be indiscreet to inquire your name ?” 

“ I am called 4 the Shade .’ " 

“ Do you expect anything ?” 

“ Yes, monsieur.” 

“ Will you be good enough to tell us what ?” 

“A letter.” 

“ From where ?” 

“From the Louvre.” 

“ Sealed with what seal ?” 

“ The royal seal.” 

Ernanton put his hand into the breast of his doublet and 
drew out a letter. 

“ That is it,” said Chicot, “ and for greater certainty, I was 
to give you something in exchange, was I not ?” 

“ A receipt.” 

“ Yes.” 

“Monsieur,” continued Ernanton, “I was told to carry it, 
but this gentleman was to deliver it.” And he handed the 
letter to St. Maline, who gave it to Chicot. 

“ You see,” said Ernanton, “ that we have faithfully fulfilled 
our mission. There is no one here, and no one has seen us 
give you the letter.” 


ST. MAI.IXE. 


) 1 1 

“ It is true, gentlemen ; but to whom am I to give the 
receipt ?” 

“ The king did not say,” said St. Maline, with a meaning air. 

“ Write two, monsieur, and give one to each of us. It is far 
from this to the Louvre, and some misfortune may happen to 
one of us on the road,” and as he spoke, Ernanton’s eyes flashed 
in their turn. 

“ You are wise,” said Chicot, drawing his tablets from his 
pocket, from which he tore out two pages and wrote cn each, 
“ Received from the hands of M. de St. Maline the letter 
brought by M. Ernanton de Carmainges. — The Shade.” 

“ Adieu, monsieur,” said St. Maline, taking his. 

“ Adieu, monsieur, and a pleasant journey to you,” added 
Ernanton. “ Have you anything else to send to the Louvre ?” 

“Nothing, I thank you.” 

Then the young men set off towards Paris, and Chicot in 
the opposite direction. When he was out of sight — 

“Now, monsieur,” said Ernanton to St. Maline, “dismount 
if you please.” 

“ And why so ?” 

“ Our task is accomplished ; we have now to converse, 
and this place appears excellent for an explanation of this 
sort.” 

“ As you please, monsieur and they got off their horses. 

Then Ernanton said, “You know, monsieur, that without 
any cause on my part, you have during the whole journey 
insulted me grievously. You wished to make me fight at an 
inopportune time, and I refused ; but now the time is good 
and I am your man.” 

But St. Maline was angry no longer, and did not wish to 
fight. 

“ Monsieur,” replied he, “ when I insulted you, you re- 
sponded by rendering me a service. I can no longer hold the 
language I did just now.” 

“No ; but you think the same.” 

“ How do you know ?” 

“ Because ) our words were dictated by hatred and envy, and 
they cannot already be extinct in your heart.” 

St. Maline coloured, but did not reply. 

Ernanton continued, “If the king preferred me to you, it 
was because I pleased him best. If I was not thrown into 
the Bievre like you, it was because I ride better : if I did not 


1 12 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


accept your challenge before, it was because I was wiser than 
you ; if I was not bitten by the dog, it was because I had 
more sagacity; if I now summon you to draw your sword, it 
is because I have more honour; and if you hesitate, I shall 
say more courage.” * 

St. Maline looked like a demon, and drew his sword 
furiously. 

“I have fought eleven times,” said he, “and two of my 
adversaries are dead. Are you aware of that, monsieur ?” 

“ And I, monsieur, have never fought, for I have never had 
occasion, and I did not seek it now. I wait your pleasure, 
monsieur.” 

“ Oh !” said St. Maline, “ we are compatriots, and we are 
both in the king’s service ; do not let us quarrel. You are a 
brave man, and I would give you my hand if I could. What 
would you have? I am envious — it is my nature. M. de 
Chalabre, or M. de Montcrabeau, would not have made me 
angry ; it was your superior merit. Console yourself, there- 
fore, for I can do nothing against you, and unluckily your 
merit remains. I should not like any one to know the cause 
of our quarrel.” 

“No one will know it, monsieur.” 

“ No one ?” 

“No; for if we fight I should kill you, or you would kill 
me. I do not despise life ; on the contrary, I cling to it, for 
I am only twenty-three years of age, have a good name and 
am not poor, and I shall defend myself like a lion.” 

“ Well, I, on the contrary, am thirty, and am disgusted with 
life ; but still I would rather not fight with you.” 

“ Then you will apologise ?” 

“No, I have said enough. If you are not content, so much 
the better, for you are not superior to me.” 

“ But, monsieur, one cannot end a quarrel thus, without the 
risk of being laughed at.” 

“ I know it.” 

“ Then you refuse to fight ?” 

“With you.” 

“ After having provoked me ?” 

“ I confess it.” 

“ But if my patience fail, and I attack you ?” 

V “ I will throw my sword away ; but I shall then have reason 


ST. MAL1NE. 


”3 


to hate you, and the first time I find you in the wrong, I will 

l ill you.” 

Ernanton sheathed his sword. “You are a strange man,” 
said he, “ and I pity you.” 

“You pity me !” 

“Yes, for you must suffer.” 

“ Horribly.” 

“ Do you never love ?” 

“ Never.” 

“ Have you no passions ?” 

“ One alone, jealousy ; but that includes all others to a 
frightful degree. I adore a woman, as soon as she loves 
another ; I love gold, when another possesses it ; — yes, you 
are right, I am unhappy.” 

“ Have you never tried to become good ?” 

“ Yes. and failed. What does the venomous plant ? What 
do the bear and bird of prey ? They destroy, but certain 
people use them for the chase. So shall I be in the hands of 
MM. d’Epernon and Loignac, till the day when they shall say, 

‘ This plant is hurtful, let us tear it up ; this beast is furious, 
let us kill him . 5 ” 

Ernanton was calmed ; St. Maline was no longer an object 
of anger but of pity. 

“ Good fortune should cure you,” said he ; “ when you 
succeed, you should hate less.” 

“ However high I should rise, others would be higher.” 

They rode on silently for some time. At last Ernanton 
held out his hand to St. Maline, and said, “ Shall I try to cure 
you ?” 

“No, do not try that ; you would fail. Hate me, on the 
contrary, and I shall admire you.” 

An hour after they entered the Louvre ; the king had gone 
out, and would not return until evening. 


3 


H4 


THE FORTY- FIVE GUARDSMEN 


CHAPTER XXX. 

DE LOIGNAC’s INTERVIEW WITH THE FORTY-FIVE. 

Each of the young men placed himself at a window to watch 
for the return of the king. Ernanton, however, soon forgot his 
present situation, and became abstracted in thinking who the 
woman could be who had entered Paris as his page, and whom 
he had since seen in such a splendid litter ; and with a heart 
more disposed to love adventure than to make ambitious cal- 
culations, he forgot why he was sitting there, till, suddenly 
raising his head, he saw that St. Maline was no longer there. 
He understood at once that he had seen the king arrive, and 
had gone to him. He rose quickly, traversed the gallery, 
and arrived at the king’s room just as St. Maline was coming 
out. 

“ Look !” cried he joyfully, “ what the king has given me,” 
and he showed a gold chain. 

“ I congratulate you, monsieu-r,” said Ernanton, quietly, and 
he entered in his turn. 

St. Maline waited impatiently until he came out again, which 
he did in about ten minutes, although it appeared an hour t » 
St. Maline. 

When Ernanton came out, he looked all over him, and seeing 
nothing, he cried joyfully, “And you, monsieur, what has he 
given to you ?” 

“ His hand to kiss,” replied Ernanton. 

St. Maline crushed his chain impatiently in his hands, and 
they both returned in silence. As they entered the hall, the 
trumpet sounded, and at this signal all the Forty-five came out 
of their rooms, wondering what was the matter; while they 
profited by this reunion to examine each other, Most of them 
were richly dressed, though generally in bad taste. They all 
had a military tournour, and long swords, boots and gloves of 
buckskin or buffalo, all well gilded or well greased, were almost 
universal. 


DE LOIGNACS IS TER VIE IV WITH TIIE FORTY- FIVE. n$ 

The most discreet might be known by their quiet colours, 
the most economical by the substantial character of their equip- 
ments, and the most gay by their white or rose-coloured satins. 
Perducas de Pincornay had bought from some Jew a gold chain 
as thick as a cable ; Pertinax de Montcrabeau was all bows and 
embroidery : he had bought his costume from a merchant who 
had purchased it of a gentleman who had been wounded by 
robbers. It was rather stained with blood and dirt, it was true, 
but he had managed to clean it tolerably. There remained two 
holes made by the daggers of the robbers, but Pertinax had had 
them embroidered in gold. 

Eustache de Miradoux did not shine; he had had to clothe 
Lardille, Militor, and the two children. All the gent4emen were 
there admiring each other, when M. de Loignac entered frown- 
ing, and placed himself in front of them, with a countenance 
anything but agreeable. 

“ Gentlemen,” said he, “ are you all here ?” 

“ All !” they replied. 

“ Gentlemen, you have been summoned to Paris as a special 
guard to the king ; it is an honourable title, but it engages you 
to much. Some of you seem not to have understood your 
duties ; I will, therefore, recall them to you. If you do not 
assist at the deliberations of the council, you will constantly be 
called upon to execute the resolutions passed there ; therefore, 
the responsibility of those secrets rests upon you. Suppose now 
that one of the officers on whom the safety of the state and the 
tranquillity of the crown reposes, betray the secrets of the council, 
or a soldier charged with a commission does not execute it, his 
life is the forfeit ; you know that ?” 

“ Doubtless,” replied many voices. 

“ Well, gentlemen, this very day a measure of his majesty’s 
has been betrayed, and a step which he wished to take rendered, 
perhaps, impossible.” 

Terror began to replace pride in the minds of the Forty- 
five, and they looked at each other with suspicion and dis- 
quietude. 

“Two of you, gentlemen,” continued De Loignac, “have 
been heard in the open street chattering like a couple of old 
women, and that about grave things.” 

St. Maline advanced. “ Monsieur,” said he, “ pray explain 
at once, that suspicion may not rest on us all.” 

“ That is easy. The king heard to-day that one of his enemies 

8—2 


Ii6 THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 

— precisely one of those whom we have been enrolled to guard 
him against — had arrived in Paris to conspire against him. 
This name was pronounced quietly, but was overheard by a 
soldier on guard, that is to say, by a man who should be re- 
garded as a wall — deaf, dumb, and immovable. However, tha* 
man repeated this name in the street with a noise and boasting, 
which attracted the attention of the passers-by and raised quite 
an emotion ; I know it, for I was there, and heard and saw all, 
and had I not placed my hand on his shoulder to stop him, 
he would have compromised such grave interests, that, had he 
not been quiet at my touch, I should have been compelled to 
poniard him oh the spot.” 

Pertinax de Montcrabeau and Perducas de Pincor-nay turned 
deadly pale, and Montcrabeau tried to stammer out some ex- 
cuses. All eyes were turned towards them. 

“ Nothing can excuse you,” said De Loignac ; “even if you 
were drunk you should be punished for that ; and you shall be 
punished.” 

A terrible silence ensued. Then Pertinax said, “Pardon, 
monsieur ! we are provincials, new to the court, and unaccus- 
tomed to politics.” 

“ You should not have accepted your posts without weighing 
their duties.” 

“ For the future we will be as mute as sepulchres, we swear to 
you.” 

“ Good ; but can you repair the evil you have done to- 
day ?” 

“ We will try.” 

“ It is impossible, I tell you.” 

“Then, for this time, pardon us.” 

“ You live,” continued De Loignac, “ with a sort of licence 
which I must repress. Those who find the terms too hard will 
return ; i :ar. easily replace them ; but I warn you that justice 
will be done amongst us, secretly and expeditiously. Traitors 
will be punished with death on the spot.” 

Montcrabeau nearly fainted, and Pertinax grew paler than 
ever. 

“ I shall have,” De Loignac continued, c; for smaller offences 
lighter punishments, as imprisonment, for instance. For this 
time, I spare the lives of M> de Montcrabeau and M. de Pin- 
cornay, because 'hey probably acted in ignorance, and shall only 
enforce against them my third method of punishment — a fine. 


DE LOIGNACS INTERVIEW WITH THE FORTY-FIVE . 117 

You have received one thousand livres apiece, gentlemen ; you 
will each return one hundred.” 

“ One hundred !” cried Pincornay ; “ Cap de Bious ! I have 
not got them ; I have spent them on my equipment.” 

“ Sell your chain, then. But I have something else to add ; 
I have remarked many signs of irritation between different 
members of your body, and each time a difference arises I wish 
the matter referred to me, and I alone shall have the power of 
allowing a duel to take place. Duelling is much in fashion now, 
but I do not wish, that, to follow the fashion, my company be 
constantly left imperfect. The first duel, therefore, that takes 
place without my permission will be punished with a rigorous 
imprisonment and a heavy fine. Now fifteen of you will place 
yourselves this evening at the fcot of the staircase when 
his majesty receives, fifteen will keep without, and fifteen 
remain at home. Also, as you should have some chief, and I 
cannot be everywhere, I will each day name a chief for the 
fifteen, so that all shall learn to obey and command. At present 
I do not know the capacities of any one, but I shall watch and 
learn. Now, go, gentlemen ; and M. de Montcrabeau and M. 
de Pincornay, you will remember that I expect your fines to be 
paid to-morrow.” 

They all retired except Ernanton, who lingered behind. 

“ Do you wish anything ?” asked De Loignac. 

“ Yes, monsieur,” said Ernanton, bowing ; “ it seems to me 
that you have forgotten to point out to us our duties. To be 
in the king’s service has a glorious sound, doubtless, but I should 
wish to know in what this service consists ?” 

“That, monsieur, is a question to which I cannot reply.” 

“ May I ask why, monsieur ?” 

“ Because I, myself, am often ignorant in the morning of 
what I shall have to do in the evening.” 

“ Monsieur, you are placed in such a high position that you 
must know much of which we are ignorant.” 

“ You love the king, I suppose ?” 

“I do ; and I ought to do so, as a subject and a gentle- 
man.” 

“ Well ! that is the cardinal point by which to regulate your 
conduct.” 

“ Very well, monsieur ; but there is one point which disquiets 
me.” 

“ What is it ?” 


iiS 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


“ Passive obedience.” 

“ It is an essential condition.” 

“ So I understand ; but it is sometimes difficult for persons 
who are delicate on points of honour.” 

That does not concern me, M. de Carmainges.” 

“ But, monsieur, when an order displeases you ” 

“I read the signature of M. d’Epernon, and that consol :s 
me.” 

“ And M. d’Epernon ?’ 

“ He reads the signature of his majesty, ana consoles himself 
as I do.” 

“ You are right, monsieur, and I am your humble servant f 
and Ernanton was about to retire, when De Loignac stopped 
him. 

“ I will say to you,” said he, “ what I have not said to the 
others, for no one else has had the courage to speak to me 
thus.” 

Ernanton bowed. 

“ Perhaps,” continued De Loignac, “ a great personage will 
come to the Louvre this evening ; if so, do not lose sight of 
him, and follow him when he leaves.” 

“ Pardon me, monsieur ; but that seems the work of a 

spy-” 

“ Do you think so ? It is possible ; but look here ” — and 
he drew out a paper which he presented to Ernanton, who 
read, — 

“ ‘ Have M. de Mayenne followed this evening, if he presents 
himself at the Louvre. — D’Epernon.’ ” 

" Well, monsieur ?” 

%( I will follow M. de Mayenne,” said Ernanton, bowing 


THE BOURGEOIS 01 BARIS. 


119 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

THE BOURGEOIS OF PARIS. 

M. de Mayenne, with whom they were so much occupied a f 
the Louvre, set out from the Hotel Guise, booted and on horse, 
back, as though he had just arrived. He was received by the 
king affectionately. 

“Well, cousin/' said he, “you have, then, come to visit 
Paris?” 

“ Yes, sire ; I come in my brother’s name and my own, to 
recall to your majesty that you have no more faithful subjects 
than ourselves.” 

“ Mordieu !” said the king, “ that is so well known that you 
might have spared yourself this trouble. You must have had 
some other motive.” 

“ Sire, I feared that your regard for u c might be shaken by 
the reports which our enemies circulate about us.” 

“ What report.- ?” asked Henri. 

“ What !” cried Mayenne, rather disconcerted ; “ has not 
your majesty heard any reports unfavourable to us ?” 

“ My cousin, know once for all that I allow no one to speak 
ill ki my presence of the Guises.” 

“ Well, sire, I do not regret my visit, since I have had the 
pleasure of finding my king so well disposed towards us ; but I 
will allow that it was needless.” 

“ Oh ! there is always something to do in Paris.” 

“Yes, sire ; but we have our business at Soissons.” 

“ What business, duke ?” 

“ Your majesty’s, sire.” 

“ Ah ! true ; continue, Mayenne, to do as you have done ; I 
know how to appreciate the conduct of my subjects. ’ 

The duke retired, smiling. The king rubbed his hands, and 
De Loignac made a sign to Ernanton who spoke to hr valet, 
and then followed M. de Mayenn^. There was no fear of 
missing him, for the news of his arrival had spread, and some 
hundred leaguers had assembled to greet him. 


i:o 


THE FORTY- FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


As the duke reached his hotel, Ernanton saw a litter pierce 
through the crowd. De Mayenne approached it, and the cur- 
tains were opened, and Ernanton thought he recognised his 
former page. The litter disappeared under the gateway, and 
Mayenne followed ; an instant after, M. de Mayneville appeared 
on the balcony, and thanked the Parisians in the duke’s name, 
but begged them to disperse and go home. 

All went away accordingly, except ten men, who had entered 
after the duke. These were the deputies of the League, who 
were sent to thank M. de Mayenne for his visit, and to beg that 
his brothers would come also. They had a number of plans, 
which only wanted the sanction and support of the chiefs. 
Bussy Leclerc came to announce that he had instructed the 
monks of three monasteries in the use of arms, and had enrolled 
500 bourgeois in a regiment. 

Lachapelle-Marteau had worked on the magistrates and had 
200 black robes ready for councillors. Brigard had gained the 
merchants of the Rue Lombards and the Rue St. Denis. Cruce 
could answer for the University of Paris, and Delbar promised 
for all the sailors in the port, a dangerous body of 500 men. 
Each of the others had something to offer, even Nicholas 
Poulain, the friend of Chicot. 

When Mayenne had heard them all, he said, “ I admire 
your strength, but I do not see the end you propose to your- 
selves.” 

Bussy Leclerc answered, “ We want a change, and as we are 
the strongest ” 

“ But how will you arrive at this change ?” 

“ It seems to me,” replied Bussy, boldly, “ that as the idea ot 
the Union came from our chiefs, is is for them to point out its 
aim.” 

“ You are perfectly right,” said Mayenne, “ but it is also for 
them to judge of the proper time for action. The troops of 
M. de Guise may be ready, but he does not give the signal 
until he thinks fit” 

“ But, monseigneur, we are impatient.” 

“ For what ?” 

“To arrive at our end. We also have our plan.” 

“ Ah ! that is different ; if you have your own plan, I say no 
more.” 

“ Yes, monseigneur ; but may we count on your aid ?” 


THE BOURGEOIS OF PARIS. 


121 


“ Doubtless, if this plan be approved by my brother and 
myself. '* 

“ We believe it will.” 

“ Let me hear it then.” 

The leaguers looked at each other, then Marteau advanced. 
“ Monseigneur ” said he, “we think the success of our plan 
certain There are particular points where all the strength of 
the city lies — the great and the little Chatelet, the Hotel de 
Ville, the arsena' and the Louvre.” 

“ It is true.” 

“All these are guarded, but could easily be surprised. * 

“ I admit this also.” 

“The town itself, however, is defended outside, firstly, by 
the chevalier of the watch with his archers. We thought of 
seizing him in his house, which could be easily done, as it is a 
lonely place. ” 

Mayenne shook his head. “ However lonely,” said he, “ you 
cannot force a door and fire twenty shots without attracting 
attention. ” 

“ We have foreseen this objection, but one of the archers 
of the watch is on our side. In the middle of the night, two or 
three of us will go and knock at the door ; the archer will open, 
and tell his chief that the king wishes to speak to him, which 
would not appear strange, as he is often sent for in this manner. 
Once the door is open we will introduce ten men— sailors who 
lodge near — who will soon finish him.” 

“ Murder him ?” 

“ Yes, monseigneur At the same time we will force the doors 
of the other functionaries who might take his place, such as 
M. d’O, M. de Chiverny, and M. le Procureur Laguesle. St. 
Bartholomew has taught us how to manage.” 

“ This is all well, gentlemen ; but you have not told me if 
you mean, at the same time, to force the doors of the Louvre 

that strong and well-guarded fortress. Believe me, the king 

is not so easily taken as the chevalier of the watch.” 

“ We have chosen four thousand men, who hate the king, 
for this undertaking.” 

“ And you think that enough ?” 

“ Doubtless ; we shall be ten to one.” 

“ Why, the Swiss are four thousand strong.” 

“ Yes, but they are at Lagny, and that is eight leagues from 
Paris, and, supposing -they were to send for 'hem, it would 


122 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN 


take two hours for the messenger to go, on horseback, and eight 
for them to return on foot, so that they would just arrive in 
time to be stopped at the gates, and in a few hours we should 
be masters of Paris ” 

“Very good; but supposing all this accomplished, the watch 
disarmed, the authorities disappeared, and all obstacles removed, 
what do you mean to do ?” 

“ Form a new government of honest people. As for our- 
selves, so long as our commerce is successful, and we have 
enough for our wives and children, we care for little else. Some 
amongst us might desire a command, and they should have it. 
We are not difficult to satisfy.” 

“ I know you are all honest, and would not suffer a mixture 
in your ranks.” 

“No, no F cried several voices. 

“Now, M. Poulain,” said the duke, “are there many idlers 
and bad people in the lie de France ?” 

Nicholas Poulain, who had hitherto kept in the background, 
was now forced to advance. “ Certainly, monseigneur, there 
are a great many,” he replied. 

“ Could you guess at their number ?” 

“About four thousand thieves, three thousand or more beggars, 
and four or five hundred assassins.” • 

“ Well, there are at least eight thousand good-for-nothings ; 
of what religion are they ?” 

Poulain laughed. “ Of all, monseigneur ; or, rather, of 
none ; gold is their god, and blood their prophet.” 

“ Yes ; but their politics ? Are they Valois, Leaguers, 
Navarrais, or what ?” 

“ Robbers only.” 

“ Monseigneur,” said Cruce, “ do not suppose that we mean 
to take these people for allies !” 

“No, I do not suppose so ; and that is what disturbs me.” 

“ And why so, monseigneur ?” they asked with surprise. 

“ Because as soon as there are no longer magistrates in 
Paris, as soon as there is no longer royalty, or public force, 
or anything to restrain them, they will begin to pillage your 
shops while you fight, and your houses while you occupy the 
Louvre. Sometimes they will join the Swiss against you, and 
sometimes you against the Swiss, so that they will always be the 
strongest.” 

“ Diablc 1” cried the deputies, looking at each other. 


THE BOURGEOIS OF PARIS \ 


123 


“ I think this is a question for grave consideration, gentle- 
men,” said the duke. “ I will think it over, and endeavour to 
find the means of overcoming the difficulty ; your interests, be- 
fore our own, has ever been our maxim.” 

The deputies gave a murmur of approbation. 

“ Now, gentlemen, permit a man who has travelled twenty- 
four leagues on horseback in forty-eight hours to seek a little 
sleep.” 

“ We humbly take our leave, monseigneur,” said Brigard ; 
“what d:.y shall you fix for our next meeting?” 

“As soon as possible, gentlemen; to-morrow, or the day 
after. Au re voir.” 

No sooner had he disappeared than a door opened, and a 
woman rushed in. 

“ The duchess !” they cried. 

“ Yes, gentlemen ; who comes to save you from your embar- 
rassments. What the Hebrews could not do, Judith did ; hope, 
then, gentlemen, for I also have my plan and she disappeared 
through the same door as her brother. 

“ Tudieu !” cried Bussy Leclerc ; “ I believe that is the man 
of the family.” 

“ Oh !” murmured Nicholas Poulain, “ I wish I were out of 
all this.” 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

BROTHER BORROMEE. 

It was about ten o’clock in the evening when the deputies re- 
turned home. Nicholas Poulain remained behind the others, 
reflecting on the perplexing situation in which he found him- 
self, and considering whether he should report all that he had 
heard to M. d’Epernon, when, in the middle of the Rue de la 
Pierre-au-Real, he ran right against a Jacobin monk. They both 
began to swear, but, looking up, recognised each other. 

“ Brother .Borromee 1” cried Poulain. 


124 ' 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


“ Nicholas Poulain !” exclaimed the monk. 

“ How arc you ?” asked Nicholas, cautiously “ Where in the 
world were you running to in such a hurry at this time of night ? 
Is the priory on fire ?” 

“ No ; I was going to the Duchesse de Montpensier’s hotel, 
to speak to M. de Mayneville.” 

“ And what for ?” 

“ Oh ! it is very simple,” said Borromee, seeking for a spe- 
cious answer ; “ the reverend prior was solicited by the duchess 
t > become her confessor ; he accepted at the time, but since 
then he has had scruples, and has sent me to tell her not to 
rely upon him.” 

“ Very good ; but you are going away from the Hotel Guise.” 

“ Exactly so ; for I hear she is at the Hotel St. Denis, with 
her brother.” 

“ Quite true ; but why do you deceive me ? It is not the 
treasurer who is sent with these sort of messages.” 

“ But to a princess ! Now do not detain me, or I shall miss 
her.” 

“ She will return, you might have waited for her.” 

“ True ; but I shall not be sorry to see M. le Due also.” 

“ Oh ! that is more like the truth, so go on. There is some- 
thing new going on,” thought Nicholas ; “but why should I try 
to discover what it is ?” 

Meanwhile the brother and sister had been conversing to- 
gether, and had settled that the king had no suspicions, and was 
therefore easy to attack. They also agreed that the first thing 
to be done was to organise the League more generally in the 
provinces, while the king abandoned his brother, who was the 
only enemy they had to fear, so long as Henri of Navarre occu- 
pied himself only with love affairs. 

“ Paris is all ready, but must wait,” said Mayenne, 

At this moment M. de Mayneville entered, and announced 
Borromee. 

“ Borromee ! who is he ?” cried the duke. 

“ The man whom you sent me from Nancy, when I asked for 
a man of action and mind.” 

“ I remember ; I told you he was both. But he was called 
Borroville.” 

“Yes, monseigneur; but now he is a monk, and called Bor- 
romee.” 

“ Borroville a monk ! and why so ?” 


BROTHER BORROMEE. 125 

“ That is our secret, monseigneur ; you shall know hereafter, 
but now let us see him, for his visit disquiets me.” 

“Why, Borroville,” cried the duke, laughing, as he entered j 
“ what a disguise !” 

“ Yes, monseigneur, I am not much at my ease in this devil of 
a dress, I confess ; but, as it is worn in the service of her high- 
ness, I do not complain.” 

“ And what do you want so late ?” 

“ I could not come sooner ; I have all the priory on my 
hands.” 

“Well ! now speak ” 

“ M. le Due, the king is sending succours to the Due 
d’Anjou.” 

“ Bah ! we have heard that the last three years.” 

“ Yes ; but this time it is certain. At two o’clock this morn- 
ing, M. de Joyeuse set out for Rouen ; he is to take ship to 
Dieppe, and convey three thousand men to Antwerp.” 

“ Oh ! who told you that, Borroville?” 

“ I heard it from a man who is going to Navarre.” 

“ To Navarre ! to Henri ?” 

“Yes, monseigneur.” 

“ And who sends him ?” 

“ The king, with a letter.” 

“ What is his name ?” 

“Robert Briquet ; he is a great friend of Gorenflot’s.” 

“ And an ambassador of the king’s ?” 

“ Yes ; I am sure of it ; for he sent one of our monks to the 
Louvre to fetch the letter.” 

“ And he did not show you the letter ?” 

“ The king did not give it to him ; he sent it by his own 
messenger.” 

“ We must have this letter.” 

“ Certainly,” said the duchess. 

“ How was it that this did not occur to you ?” said Mayne- 
ville. 

“ I did think of it, and wished to send one of my men, who 
is a perfect Hercules, with M. Briquet, but he suspected, and 
dismissed him.” 

“You must go yourself.” 

“ Impossible !” 

« And why ?” 

“Because he knows me.” 


12 6 


TI1E FOE TV- FIFE GUARDSMEN, 


“ As a monk, but not as captain, I hope.’ 

“ Ma foi ! I do not know; he seems to know everything.” 

“ What is he like ?” 

“ He is tall — all nerves, muscles and bones ; silent, but 
mocking.” 

“ Ah ! ah ! and clever with his sword ?” 

“ Marvellously.” 

“ A long face ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ And an old friend of the prior’s ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“Oh! I have a suspicion which I must have cleared up. 
Borroville, you must go to Soissons, to my brother ” 

“ But the priory ?” 

“ Oh ! you can invent some excuse to Gorenflot ; he believes 
all you say,” said Mayneville. 

“ You will tell my brother all you know about the mission of 
of M. de Joyeuse.” 

“ Yes. monseigneur.” 

“ And Navarre ” said the duchess. 

“ Oh ! I charge myself with that,” said Mayenne. “ Let 
them saddle me a fresh horse, Mayneville.” Then he mur- 
mured to himself, “ Can he be still alive ?” 


CHICOT ; LATINIST \ 


127 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

CHICOT, LATINIST. 

After the departure of the young men, Chicot went on 
quietly; but as soon as they had disappeared in the valley, he 
stopped at the top of a hill and looked all round him ; then, 
seeing no one, he seated himself, and commenced an exami- 
nation. He had now two purses, for he perceived that the 
packet he had received contained money, besides the letter. 
It was quite a royal purse, embroidered with an “ H ” at each 
end. 

“ It is pretty, ’’ said Chicot, “ no one could be more generous 
or more stupid. Decidedly I shall never make anything of the 
king. All that astonishes me is that he did not have the letter 
embroidered outside also. Now let me see how f much money 
he has sent. One hundred crowns; just the sum I borrowed 
from Gorenflot. Ah ! pardon, Henri, this is good. But the 
purse annoys me ; if I were to keep it I should feel as if the 
very birds, as they flew over my head, would denounce me as a 
royal messenger.” 

So saying, he drew from his pocket Gorenflot’s bag, emptied 
the king’s money into it, then placed a stone in the purse, and 
thtfew it into the Orge, which flowed under the bridge at his 
feet. 

“ So much for myself — now r for Henri,” said Chicot ; and he 
took up the letter, broke the seal with the utmost tranquillity, 
and sent the envelope into the river after the purse. “ Now,” 
said he, “ let us read.” 

“ ‘ Dear brother, the deep love which you felt for our late 
dear brother and king, Charles IX., still clings to the Louvre 
and to my heart ; it grieves me, therefore, to have to write to 
you about vexatious things. You are strong, however, against 
ill fortune, so that I do not hesitate to communicate these 
things to you — things which can only be told to a tried friend. 
Besides, I have an interest in warning you — the honour of my 
name and of your own, my brother. We resemble each other 


28 


77/A FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


in one thing, that we are each surrounded with enemies. 
Chicot will explain to you. 

“ ‘ M. de Turenne, your servant, causes daily scandal at 
your court ; God forbid that I should interfere in your affairs, 
except where your honour is concerned , but your wife, whom 
to my regret I call my sister, should be more careful than 
she is of your honour. I advise you, therefore, to watch 
the communications of Margot with Turenne, that she does 
not bring shame on the house of Bourbon. Act as soon 
as you shall be sure of the fact, into which I pray you to 
inquire as soon as Chicot shall have explained to you my 
letter. 

“ ‘ Those whom as brother and king I denounce to you, 
generally meet at a little chateau called Loignac, the pretext 
being generally the chase. This chateau is, besides, the focus 
for intrigues to which the Guises are not strangers, and you 
know the strange love with which my sister pursued Henri de 
Guise. I embrace you, and am ever ready to aid you in al-1, 
and for all ; meanwhile aid yourself by the advice of Chicot, 
whom I send to you. Your affectionate,’ etc. 

“ Age auctore Chicot” said Chicot, “ here am I, installed 
counsellor of the king of Navarre ! This seems to me a bad 
commission, and in flying one ill, I have fallen into a worse 
one. Really, I should almost prefer Mayenne. But the 
letter is clever, and if Henriot be like other husbands, it will 
embroil him at once with his wife, Turenne, the Guises, and 
even with Spain. But if Henri de Valois is so well in- 
formed of all that passes in Navarre, he must have some spy 
there.” 

“Then, again,” continued he, “this letter will lead me 
into mischief if I meet a Spaniard, a Lorraine, a Bearnais, or 
a Fleming curious enough to wish to know what brings me 
here, and I should be very foolish not to remember that there 
is a chance of that. M. Borromee, above all, I suspect may 
play me some trick. Besides, what did I seek in asking the 
king for this mission ? Tranquillity. And now I am going 
to embroil the King of Navarre with his wife. However, that 
is not my affair, except that I shall make mortal enemies, 
who will prevent me from ever reaching the happy age of 
eighty. 

“ Ma foi ! but that is not much, for it is only worth living 
when you are young. But then I might as well have waited 


CHICOT, LA TIM ST. 


129 


for the knife of M. de Mayenne. However, I will take pre- 
cautions, and will translate this fine letter into Latin, and 
engrave it on my memory ; then I will buy a horse, because 
from Juvisy to Pau I should have too often to put the right 
foot before the left if I walked— but first I will destroy this 
letter.” 

This he proceeded to do ; tearing it into an infinite number 
of little pieces, sending some into the river, others into the air, 
and burying the rest in holes in the ground. 

“ Now let me think of my Latin theme,” said he ; and this 
study occupied him until he arrived at Corbeil, where he be- 
stowed a glance at the Cathedral, but fixed an earnest look at a 
traiteur’s, whence came an appetizing smell of dinner. We 
will not describe either the dinner he made or the horse he 
bought ; suffice it to say that the dinner was long and the horse 
was bad. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

THE FOUR WINDS. 

Chicot, with his little horse, which ought to have been a big 
one to have carried him, after having slept at Fontainebleau, 
made a detour to the right, and proceeded towards the little 
village of Orgeval. He would have gone further that day, but, 
his horse failed him. He put up, therefore, at a good hotel, 
and went through the rooms to select one where the doors 
closed well, and chose an apartment which had just been re- 
paired, and the door of which was furnished with a formidable 
lock. 

Before going to bed, although the hotel had appeared almost 
empty, he locked the door and placed a heavy table and a 
chest of drawers against it. He then put his purse under his 
pillow, and repeated to himself three times over the translation 
of the king’s letter. There was an extremely high wind blow- 
ing, and as it howled in the neighbouring trees, it was with a 

9 


130 THE FORTY- FIVE G UARDSMEN. 

feeling of great satisfaction that Chicot plunged into a very 
comfortable bed. 

He had a lamp by his bed-side, and he occupied himself for 
some time in reading a book which he had brought with him ; 
but, although he liked the book, in reading the third chapter he 
fell asleep. The wind moaned about the house, sometimes like 
a child crying, and sometimes like a husband scolding his 
wife; and as Chicot slept, it seemed to him, in his di earns, 
that the tempest came nearer and nearer. All at once a 
sudden squall of invincible force broke locks and bolts — pushed 
the chest of drawers, which fell on the lamp, which it extin- 
guished, and on the table, which it smashed. 

Chicot had the faculty of waking quickly, and with all his 
senses about him, so he jumped out of bed and got hold in an 
instant of his purse and his sword. It was quite dark, but 
it seemed to him that the whole room was being torn to pieces 
by the four winds of heaven ; for the chairs were falling, and 
the table breaking more and more under the weight of the 
drawers. As he could do nothing against the gods of 
Olympus, he contented himself with standing in one corner, 
with his sword held out before him, so that if any of these 
mythological personages approached, they would spit them- 
selves upon it. 

At last he profited by a momentary cessation in the uproar 
to cry loudly, “ Help ! help !” 

He made so much noise that it seemed to quiet the ele- 
ments, as if Neptune had pronounced the famous Quos ego, 
and, after six or seven minutes, during which Eurus, Notus, 
Boreas and Aquilo seemed to beat a retreat, the host appeared 
with a lantern and enlightened the scene, which looked deplor- 
ably like a field of battle. The great chest of drawers was 
overturned on the broken table ; the door was held only by 
one of its hinges, and the bolts were broken ; three or four 
chairs were on the floor with their legs in the air, and, to crown 
all, the crockery, which had been on the table, lay in bits on 
the floor. 

“ This is a regular pandemonium,” cried Chicot, recognising 
his host. 

“ Oh ! monsieur,” cried the host, clasping his hands, “ what 
has happened ?” 

“ Are there demons lodging here ?” asked Chicot. 

“ Oh ! what weather,” replied the host pathetically. 


THE FOUR WINDS. 


* 3 * 

“ But the belts do not hold ; this house must be made 
of card-board. I would rather go away; — I prefer the 
road.’’ 

“ Oh ! my poor furniture,” sighed the host. 

“ But my clothes ! where are they ? They were on this 
chair.” 

“ If they were there, they ought to be there still,” replied 
the host. 

“ What ! ‘ if they were there ’ Do you think I came here 
yesterday in this costume ?” 

“ Mon Dieu ! monsieur,” answered the host, with embarrass- 
ment, “ I know you were clothed. - ’ 

“It is lucky you confess it.*’ 

•‘But ’’ 

“ But what ?” 

“ The wind has dispersed everything. 

“ Ah ! that is a reason.” 

“ You see.*' 

“ But, my friend, when the wind comes in it comes from 
outside, and it must have come in here if it made this destruc- 
tion.” 

“Certainly, monsieur.” 

“Well, the wind in coming in here should have brought with 
it the clothes of others, instead of carrying mine out.” 

“So it should, and yet the contrary seems to have hap- 
pened ’ 

“ But what is this ? The wind must have walked in the 
mud, for here are footmarks on the floor.” And Chicot 
pointed out the traces left by a muddy boot-, on seeing which 
the host turned pale. 

“ Now, my friend,” said Chicot, “ I advise you to keep a 
watch over these winds which enter hotels, penetrate rooms by 
breaking doors, and retire, carrying away the clothes of the 
guests.” 

The host drew back towards the door. “You call me 
thief !” said he. 

“You are responsible for my clothes, and they are gone — 
you will not deny that ?” 

“ You insult me.” 

Chicot made a menacing gesture. 

‘ Hola !” cried the host ; “ hola ! help !” 

Four men armed with sticks immediately appeared. 

9—2 


132 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


“ Ah ! here are the four winds,” cried Chicot, making a 
thrust with his sword at one of them ; but they all rapidly dis- 
appeared, not, however, before one of them had whispered 
something to the host. 

“ Your clothes shall be found,” growled he. 

“ Well ! that is all I ask.” 

They soon made their appearance, but visibly deteriorated. 

“ Ah ! there are nails in your staircase ; what a devil of a 
wind it was,” said Chicot. 

“ Now you will go to bed again ?” said the host. 

“No, I thank you, I have slept enough ; leave me your 
lantern and I will read.” 

Chicot replaced the chest of drawers against the door 
dressed himself, got into bed again, and read till daybreak, 
when he asked for his horse, paid his bill, and went away, 
saying to himself — 

“We shall see, to-night.” 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

HOW CHICOT CONTINUED HIS JOURNEY, AND WHAT 
HAPPENED TO HIM. 

Chicot passed his morning in congratulating himself on the 
sang-froid and patience he had displayed through his night of 
trials. 

“ But,” thought he, “ they never take an old wolf twice in 
the same snare ; therefore, it is nearly certain that they will 
invent some new devfiry to practise on me to-day, so I must be 
on my guard.” 

The result of this reasoning was, that Chicot made a march 
that day worthy of being immortalised by Xenophon. Every 
tree, rising ground, or wall, served him for a point of observa- 
. tion. He also concluded on the road alliances, if not offen- 
sive, at least defensive. Four grocers from Paris, who were 
going to Orleans to order preserves, and to Limoges for dried 


CHICOT CONTINUES HIS JOURNEY. 


133 


fruits, allowed Chicot, who called himself a hosier from Bor- 
deaux, returning home, to join their company, which was 
rendered more formidable by four clerks, who were following 
their masters. It was quite a little army, and scarcely less 
formidable in mind than in number, so warlike a spirit had 
the League introduced among the Parisian shopkeepers. At 
all events, three cowards together have less fear than one 
brave man alone. At last they reached Etampes, the town 
fixed on for supper and sleeping. They supped, and then each 
went to his room. 

Chicot, who had not been sparing during the repast, either 
of his fun, which amused his companions, or of the Muscat 
and Burgundy, went to bed, after having settled to travel 
again with the grocers on the morrow. Chicot, therefore, 
thought himself guarded like a prince by the four travellers, 
Whose rooms were in the same corridor and close to his own. 
Indeed, at this epoch, the roads being far from safe, travellers 
Were in the habit Of promising each other mutual aid in case of 
need. Chicot then, after bolting his door and striking the 
walls, which returned everywhere a satisfactory sound, went to 
bed and to sleep. 

But there arrived, during his first sleep, an event which 
the Sphynx himself, the diviner par excellence, could not have 
foreseen ; but the devil was mixing himself up with Chicot’s 
affairs, and he is more cunning than all the Sphynxes in the 
world. 

About half-past nine a blow was struck on the door of the 
room where the clerks all slept. One of them opened in a 
very bad humour, and found himself face to face with the 
host. 

“ Gentlemen,” said he, “ I see with pleasure that you are 
sleeping all ready dressed, for I wish to render you a great 
service. Your masters grew very warm over politics at supper- 
time, and it seems that a sheriff of the town heard them and 
reported it Now, as we are very loyal here, the mayor sent 
down the watch, and they have arrested your masters and 
carried them off. The prison is near the Hotel de Ville; go, 
my lads, your mules are ready for you, your masters will join 
you on the road.” 

The four clerks shook like hares, ran downstairs, jumped 
on their mules, and took the road back to Paris, telling the 


13 \ THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 

host to let their masters know, if they should return to the 
hotel. 

Having seen them disappear, the host went to knock very 
gently at one of the doors in the corridor 

One of the merchants cried out in a loud voice, “ Who is 
there ?” 

“ Silence !” replied the host, “ and come quietly to the door ” 

The merchant obeyed, but before opening, he said again, — 

“ Who are you ?” 

“ Your host ; do you not recognise my voice ?” 

“ Mon Dieu ! what is the matter ?” 

“ Why, it seems you talked rather too freely at table, and 
the mayor has been informed by some spy, and has sent to 
arrest you. Luckily, I thought of showing them your clerks’ 
room instead of yours, so that they are busy upstairs arresting 
them.’’ 

“ Can this be true ?” 

“ Pure and simple truth. Make haste, and escape while 
you can.” 

“ But my companions ?” 

“ Oh ! I will tell them.” 

And while the merchant dressed, the host awakened the 
others, and very soon they all disappeared, walking on the 
points of their toes, that they might not be heard. 

“ That poor hosier !” said they ; “ it will all fall on him ; but 
it is true he said the most.” 

Of course Chicot had received no warning. While the mer- 
chants were flying, he was sleeping peacefully 

The host now descended into the hall, where stood six armed 
men, one of whom seemed to command the others. 

“ Well ?” said this one. 

“ I have obeyed your orders, monsieur.” 

“ Your inn is deserted ?” 

“ Absolutely.” 

“ The person is not awakened.” 

“No.” 

“You know in whose name we act, and what cause we 
serve ; for you serve the same.” 

“Yes, certainly; therefore, I have sacrificed, to keep my 
oath, the money that these men would have spent at my house; 
for it is said in the oath, ‘ I will sacrifice my goods to the 
defence of the Catholic religion.’” 


CHICOT CONTINUES HIS JOURNEY. 


135 


“ ‘ And my life,’ you forget that/’ replied the officer. 

“ Oh ! I have a wife and children.” 

“ You must obey blindly what is ordered you.” 

“ Oh ! I will obey.” 

“ Then go to bed, shut the doors, and whatever you see or 
hear, do not come out, even if your house is burning.” 

“ Oh ! I am ruined !” 

“ I anuinstructed to indemnify you ; here are thirty crowns.” 

“ My house estimated at thirty crowns !” cried the inn- 
keeper, piteously. 

“ We shall not break even a window' ; complainer that 
you are. 1, 

“Oh ! wffiat a champion of the Holy League.” 

The host w^ent away and did as he w ? as told. Then the 
officer ordered tw^o men to place themselves under Chicct’s 
window, while he himself, with the three others, mounted to his 
room. 

“ You know the order,” said the officer. “ If he opens and 
lets us search, and we find wffiat we seek, we will not do him 
the least harm ; but if the contrary happens, a good blow w’ith 
a dagger ; no pistol, you understand — besides, it is useless, being 
four against oneT 

The officer knocked. 

“ Who is there ?” cried Chicot. 

“ Your friends the grocers, who have something important to 
tell you *' 

“ Oh !” said Chicot ; “ how last night’s wine has strengthened 
your voice.” 

The officer lowered his voice, and said in an insinuating tene, 
“Open quickly, dear companion.” 

“ Ventre de biche ! I do not smell the grocery.” 

“Ah! you will not open?” cried the officer, impatiently. 
“ Break open the door.” 

Chicot ran to the window, but saw below tw r o naked swords 
shining. 

“ I am caught,” said he. 

“ Ah ! ah !” cried the officer, who had heard the noise of the 
window opening ; “ you fear the perilous leap, and you are right. 
Come, open !” 

“ Ma foi, no ; the door is solid, and I shall get help when you 
make a noise.” And he began to call for the merchants. 

The officer laughed. “ Fool !” cried he. “ Do you think 


13 $ 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


we have left you their help? Undeceive yourself; you are 
alone, so make up your mind to it. Go on, soldiers. ” 

Chicot heard three blows struck on the door. 

“ They have three muskets,” said he ; “ and below there are 
only two swords, and only fifteen feet to jump ; I prefer the 
swords to the muskets.” 

And tying his bag to his belt, he got on the window-sin 
with his drawn sword. The two men below stood ready with 
their drawn swords, but, as Chicot guessed, on seeing him 
jump sword in hand, they drew back, intending' to strike him 
as he came to the ground. Chicot alighted on his feet, and 
one of the men gave him a thrust immediately. Thanks, 
however, to Gorenflot’s coat of mail, the blade broke like 
glass. 

“ He has armour !” cried the soldier 

“ Pardieu !” said Chicot, cutting open his head with a blow 
of his sword. 

The other began to cry out, thinking now only of defending 
himself, but, at the second pass, Chicot laid him by his com- 
rade ; so that when the door was burst open, the officer saw 
through the window his two sentinels lying in their blood, and 
Chicot running quietly away. 

“ He is a demon ; he is steel proof !” cried he. 

“ Yes ; but not ball-proof !” cried the soldiers. 

“No firing ; no noise ; you will wake the city. We shall 
catch him to-morrow.” 


THE THIRD DAY OF THE JOURNEY. 


i n 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

THE THIRD DAY OF THE JOURNEY. 

Chicot knew he was safe in the city of Etampes, where he was 
under the protection of magistrates who would have arrested 
the officer immediately on his complaint. It was the knowledge 
of this which had induced the officer to stop his men from firing, 
and to abstain from pursuit. Therefore he retired with his 
soldiers, leaving the two dead men on the ground after laying 
their swords by them, that it might seem as though they had 
killed each other. 

Chicot vainly searched for his former companions, and then 
determined to stay for a time in the city ; and even, after watch- 
ing the officer and his men leave the town, had the audacity to 
return to the inn. There he found the host, who had not re- 
covered from his terror, and who watched him saddling his 
horse as though he had been a phantom, and never even asked 
him for his money. 

Then he went and finished his night in the public room at 
another inn, among all the drinkers, who were far from think- 
ing that this tall unknown, who looked so smiling and gracious, 
had just killed two men. 

At break of day he started again, but a prey to anxiety, for 
although two attempts had failed, the third might be successful. 
He determined when he reached Orleans to send to the king 
to ask for an escort. 

But as the road to Orleans was passed without accident, 
Chicot began to think again that it was needless, and that the 
king would lose his good opinion of him, and also that an 
escort would be a great trouble. He went on, therefore, but 
his fears began to return as evening advanced. All at once 
he heard behind him the galloping of horses, and turning 
round he counted seven cavaliers, of whom four had muskets 
on their shoulders. They gained rapidly on Chicot, who, 
seeing flight was hopeless, contented himself with making his 


33 


TI1E FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


horse move in zig-zags, so as to escape the balls which he 
expected every moment. He was right, for when they came 
about fifty feet from him, they fired, but thanks to his ma- 
noeuvre, all the balls missed him. He immediately abandoned 
the reins and let himself slip to the ground, taking the pre 
caution to have his sword in one hand and a dagger in the 
other. 

He came to the ground in such a position fehat his head was 
protected by the breast erf his horse. 

A cry of joy came from the troop, who, seeing him fall, believed 
him dead. 

“I told you so,” said a man, riding up, with a mask on his 
face ; “ you failed because you did not follow my orders. 
This time, here he is ; search him, and if he moves, finish 
him.” 

Chicot was not a pious man, but at such a moment he re- 
membered his God and murmured a fervent prayer. 

Two men approached him sword in hand, and as he did not 
stir, came fearlessly forward ; but instantly Chicot’s dagger was 
in the throat of one, and his sword half buried in the side of 
the other. 

“Ah! treason J” cried the chief, “he is not dead; charge 
your muskets.” 

“ No, I am not dead,” cried Chicot, attacking the speaker. 

But two soldiers came to the rescue * Chicot turned and 
wounded one in the thigh. 

“ The muskets !” cried the chief. 

“ Before they are ready, you will be pierced through the 
heart,” cried Chicot. 

“ Be firm, and I will aid you,” cried a voice, which seemed 
to Chicot to come from Heaven. 

It was that of a fine young man, on a black horse. He had 
a pistol in each hand, and cried again to Chicot, “ Stoop ! mor- 
bleu, stoop !” 

Chicot obeyed. 

One pistol was fired, and a man rolled at Chicot’s feet ; then 
the second, and another man fell. 

“Now we are two to two,” cried Chicot; “generous young 
•man, you take one, here is mine,” and he rushed on the masked 
man, who defended himself as if used to arms. 

The young man seized his opponent by the body, threw him 
down, and bound him with his belt Chicot soon wounded 


THE THIRD DAI OF THE JOURNEY. 


T 39 


his adversary, who was very corpulent, between the ribs ; he 
fell, and Chicot, putting his foot on his sword to prevent him 
from using it, cut the strings of his mask. 

“ M. de Mayenne ! ventre de biche, I thought so,” said he. 

The duke did not reply ; he had fainted from loss of blood 
and the weight of his fall. Chicot drew his dagger, and was 
about coolly to cut off his head, when his arm was seized by a 
grasp of iron, and a voice said, — 

“ Stay ! monsieur ; one does not kill a fallen enemy.” 

“ Young man,” replied Chicot, “ you have saved my life, and 
I thank you with all my heart ; but accept a little lesson very 
useful i-n the time of moral degradation in which we live. When 
a man has been attacked three times in three days — when he 
has been each time in danger of death — when his enemies have, 
without provocation, fired four musket balls at him from behind 
— as they might have done to a mad dog — then, young man, 
he may do what I am about to do.” And Chicot returned to 
his work. 

But the young man stopped him again. 

“You shall not do it, while I am here. You shall not shed 
more of that blood which is now issuing from the wound you 
have already inflicted.” 

“ Bah ! do you know this wretch ?” 

“ That wretch is M. le Due de Mayenne, a prince equal in 
rank to many kings.” 

“ All the more reason. And who are you ?” 

“ He who has saved your life, monsieur.” 

“ And who, if I do not deceive myself, brought me a lettei 
from the king three days ago.” 

“ Precisely.” 

“ Then you are in the king’s service ?’ 

“ I have that honour.” 

“ And yet you save M. de Mayenne ? Permit me to tell 
you, monsieur, that that is not being a good servant.” 

“I think differently.” 

“ Well, perhaps you are right. What is your name ?” 

“ Ernanton de Carmainges.” 

“ Well, M. Ernanton, what are we to do with this great car- 
cass ?” 

“ I will watch over M. de Mayenne, monsieur.’' 

“ And his follower, who is listening there ?” 


140 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN . 


“ The poor devil hears nothing ; I have bound him too tightly, 
and he has fainted.” 

“ M. de Carmainges, you have saved my life to-day, but you 
endanger it furiously for the future.” 

“ I do my duty to-day ; God will provide for the future.” 

“ As you please, then, and I confess I dislike killing a de- 
fenceless man. Adieu, monsieur. But first, I will choose one 
of these horses.” 

“ Take mine ; I know what it can do.” 

“ Oh ! that is too generous.” 

“ I have not so much need as you have to go quickly.” 

Chicot made no more compliments, but got on Ernanton’s 
horse and disappeared. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

ERNANTON DE CARMAINGES. 

Ernanton remained on the field of battle, much embarrassed 
what to do with the two men, who would shortly open their 
eyes. As he deliberated, he saw a wagon coiling along, drawn 
by two oxen, and driven by a peasant. Ernanton went to the 
man and told him that a combat had taken place between the 
Huguenots and Catholics, that four had been killed, but that 
two were still living. The peasant, although desperately fright- 
ened, aided Ernanton to place first M. de Mayenne and then 
the soldier in the wagon. The four bodies remained. 

“Monsieur,” said the peasant, “were they Catholics or 
Huguenots ?” 

“ Huguenots,” said Ernanton, who had seen the peasant cross 
himself in his first terror. 

“In that case there will be no harm in my searching them, 
will there ?” 

“None,” replied Ernanton, who thought it as well that the 
peasant should do it, as the first oasser-by. The man did not 


ERNANTON DE CARMA1NGES . 141 

wait to be told twice, but turned out their pockets. It seemed 
that he was far from disappointed, for his face looked smiling 
when he had finished the operation, and he drove on his oxen 
at their quickest pace, in order to reach his home with his 
treasure. 

It was in the stable of this excellent Catholic, on a bed of 
straw, that M. de Mayenne recovered his consciousness. He 
opened his eyes, and looked at the men and the things sur- 
rounding him with a surprise easy to imagine. Ernanton im- 
mediately dismissed the peasant. 

“ Who are you, monsieur ?” asked Mayenne. 

Ernanton smiled. 

“ Do you not recognise me ?” said he. 

“ Yes, I do now ; you are he who came to the assistance of 
my enemy.” 

“Yes, but I am he who prevented your enemy from killing 
you.” 

“ That must be true, since I live ; unless, indeed, he thought 
me dead.” 

“ He went away knowing you to be alive.” 

“ Then he thought my wound mortal.” 

“ I do not know ; but had I not opposed him, he would have 
given you one which certainly would have been so.” 

“ But then, monsieur, why did you aid him in killing my 
men ?” 

“ Nothing more simple, monsieur; and I am astonished that 
a gentleman, as you seem to be, does not understand my con- 
duct. Chance brought me on your road, and I saw several 
men attacking one ; I defended the one, but when this brave 
man — for whoever he may be, he is brave — when he remained 
alone with you, and would have decided the victory by your 
death, then I interfered to save you.” 

“ You know me, then ?” said Mayenne, with a scrutinising 
glance. 

“ I had no need to know you, monsieur ; you were a wounded 
man, that was enough.” 

“ Be frank ; you knew me ?” 

“ It is strange, monsieur, that you will not understand me. 
It seems to me that it is equally ignoble to kill a defenceless 
man, as six men to attack one.” 

“ There may be reasons for all things.” 

Ernanton bowed, but did not reply. 


142 


THE FORTY- FIVE GUARDSMEN, 


“ Did you not see,” continued Mayenne, “that I fought sword 
to sword with that man ?” 

“ It is true.” 

“ Besides, he is my most mortal enemy. • 

“ I believe it, for he said the same thing of you.” 

“ Do you think me dangerously wounded ?” 

“ I have examined your wound, monsieur, and I think that, 
although it is serious, you are in no danger of death. I believe 
the sword slipped along the ribs, and did not penetrate the 
breast. Breathe, and I think you will find no pain in the 
lungs.” 

“ It is true ; but my men ?” 

“ Are dead, all but one.” 

“ Are they left on the road ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Have they been searched ?” 

“ The peasant whom you must have seen on opening your 
eyes, and who is your host, searched them.” 

“ What did he find ?” 

“ Some money.” 

“ Any papers ?” 

“ I think not.” 

“ Ah !” said Mayenne, with evident satisfaction. “ But the 
living man ; where is he ?” 

“ In the barn, close by.” 

“ Bring him to me, monsieur ; and if you are a man of nonour, 
promise me to ask him no questions.” 

“ I am not curious, monsieur ; and I wish to know no more 
of this affair than I know already.” 

The duke looked at him uneasily. 

“ Monsieur,” said Ernanton, “ will you cnarge some one else 
with the commission you have just given me ?” 

“ I was wrong, monsieur, I acknowledge it ; have the kind- 
ness to render me the service I ask of you.” 

Five minutes after, the soldier entered the stable. He uttered 
a cry on seeing the duke, but he put his finger on his lip, and 
the man was silent. 

“ Monsieur,” said Mayenne to Ernanton, “ my gratitude to 
you will be eternal ; and, doubtless, some day we shall meet 
under more favourable circumstances. May I ask to whom I 
have the honour of speaking ?” 

“ I am the Vicomte Ernanton de Carmainges, monsieur.” 


ERNANTON DE CARMA1NGES. 


*43 


“You were going to Beaugency?” 

“Yes, monsieur.” 

“ Then I have delayed you, and you cannot go on to-night.” 

“ On the contrary, monsieur, I am about to start at once.” 

“ For Beaugency ?” 

“ No, for Paris,” said Ernanton; “somewhat unwillingly.” 

The duke appeared astenished. 

“ Pardon,” said he , “ but it is strange that going to Beau- 
gency, and being stopped by an unforeseen circumstance, you 
should return without fulfilling the end of your journey.” 

“Nothing is more simple, monsieur: I was going to a ren- 
dezvous for a particular time, which 1 have lost by coming here 
with you ; therefore I return.” 

“ Oh ! monsieur, will you not stay here with me for two or 
three days ? I will send this soldier to Paris for a surgeon, and 
I cannot remain here alone with these peasants, who are strangers 
to me.” 

“ Then let the soldier remain with you, and I will send you a 
doctor.” 

“ Do you know the name of my enemy ?” 

“No, monsieur.” 

“ What ! you saved his life, and he did not tell you his name?” 

“ I did not ask him.” 

“ You did not ask him ?” 

“ I have saved your life also, monsieur ; have- I asked you 
your name? But, in exchange, you both know mine.” 

“ I see, monsieur, there is nothing to be learned from you ; 
you are as discreet as brave.” 

“ I observe that you say that in a reproachful manner ; but, 
on the contrary you ought to be reassured, for a man who is 
discreet with one person will be so with another.” 

“ You are right ! your hand, M. de Carmainges.” 

Ernanton did quietly as he was asked. 

“ You have blamed my conduct, monsieur.” said Mayenne ; 
“ but I cannot justify myself without revealing important 
secrets.” 

“You defend yourself, monsieur, when I do not accuse.” 

“ Well ! I will only say that I am a gentleman of good rank, 
and able to be of use to you.” 

“ Say no more, monsieur ; thanks to the master whom I 
serve, I have no need of assistance from any one.” 

“ Your master, who is he ?” 


144 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


“ I have asked no questions, monsieur.” 

“ It is true.” 

“ Besides, your wound begins to inflame ; I advise you to 
talk less.” 

“ You are right ; but I want my surgeon.” 

“ I am returning to Paris, as I told you : give me his 
address.” 

“ M. de Carmainges, give me your word of honour that if I 
entrust you with a letter it shall be given to the person to whom 
it is addressed.” 

“ I give it, monsieur.” 

“ I believe you ; I am sure I may trust you. 1 must tell you 
a part of my secret. I belong to the guards of Madame de 
Montpensier.” 

“ Oh ! I did not know she had guards.” 

“ In these troublous times, monsieur, every one guards him- 
self as well as he can, and the house of Guise being a princely 
one ” 

“ I asked for no explanation, monsieur.” 

“Well, I had a mission to Amboise ; when on the road I saw 
my enemy; you know the rest.” 

“Yes.” 

“ Stopped by this wound, I must report to the duchess the 
reason of my delay.” 

“ Well ?” 

“ Will you therefore put into her own hands the letter I am 
about to write ?” 

“ I will see for ink and paper.” 

“ It is needless, my soldier will get my tablets.” 

He instructed the soldier to take them from his pocket, 
opened them by a spring, wrote some lines in pencil, and shut 
them again. It was impossible for any one who did not know 
the secret to open them without breaking them. 

“ Monsieur,” said Ernanton, “ in three days these tablets 
shall be delivered.” 

“ Into her own hands ?” 

“ Yes, monsieur.” 

The duke, exhausted by talking, and by the effort of writing 
che letter, sank back on his straw. 

, “ Monsieur,” said the soldier, in a tone little in harmony with 

•his dress, “ you bound me very tight, it is true, but I shall re- 


ERNANTON DE C A RMA 1 A GES. 145 

gard my chains as bonds of friendship, and will prove it to you 
some day.” 

And he held out a hand whose whiteness Ernanton had 
already remarked. 

“So be it,” said he, smiling; “it seems I have gained two 
friends.” 

“ Do not despise them ; one has never too many.” 

“ That is true,” said Ernanton and he left them. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

THE STABLE-YARD. 

Ernanton arrived at Paris on the third day. At three in the 
afternoon he entered the Louvre, among his comrades. The 
Gascons called out in surprise at seeing him, and M. de Loignac 
looked gloomy, and signed to him to enter a little room, where 
he always gave his private audiences. 

“ This is nice behaviour, monsieur,” said he; “five days and 
nights absent ; and you whom I thought so well of.” 

“ Monsieur, I did what I was told to do.” 

“ What were you told to do ?” 

“ To follow M. de Mayenne, and I have followed him.” 

“ For five days and nights ?” 

“ Yes, monsieur.” 

“ Then he has left Paris ?” 

“ He left that same evening, and that seemed to me sus 
picious.” 

“ You are right, monsieur, go on.” 

Ernanton related clearly and energetically all that had taken 
place. When Ernanton mentioned the letter : 

“ You have it, monsieur ?” asked De Loignac. 

“Yes, monsieur.” 

“ Diable ! that deserves attention ; come with me, I beg of 
you.” 

10 


146 TIIE FORTY- FIVE GUARDSMEN. 

Ernanton followed De Loignac to the court yard of the 
Louvre. All was preparing for the king’s going out, and M. 
d’Epernon was seeing two new horses tried, which had been 
sent from England, as a present from Elizabeth to Henri, and 
which were that day to be harnessed to the king’s carriage for 
the first time. 

De Loignac approached D’Epernon. 

“ Great news, M. le Due,” said he. 

“ What is it ?” said D’Epernon, drawing to one side. 

“ M. de Carmainges has seen M. de Mayenne lying wounded 
in a village beyond Orleans.” 

“ Wounded !” 

“ Yes, and more, he has written a letter to Madame de 
Montpensier, which M. de Carmainges has in his pocket.” 

“Oh ! oh ! send M. de Carmainges to me.” 

“ Here he is,” said De Loignac, signing to Ernanton to 
advance. 

“ Well, monsieur, it seems you have a letter from M. de 
Mayenne.” 

“Yes, monsieur.” 

“ Addressed to Madame de Montpensier ?” 

“Yes, monsieur.” 

“ Give it to me,” and the duke extended his hand. 

“Pardon, monsieur, but did you ask me for the duke’s 
letter ?” 

“ Certainly.” 

“You do not know that this letter was confided to me.” 

“ What matters that ?” 

“ It matters much, monsieur ; I passed my word to the duke 
to give it to Madame la Duchesse herself.” 

“ Do you belong to the king, or to M. de Mayenne ?” 

“To the king.” 

“ Well ! the king wishes to see the letter.” 

“ Monsieur, you are not the king.” 

“ I think you forget to whom you speak, M. de Car- 
mainges.” 

“I remember perfectly, monsieur, and that is why I 
refuse.” 

“ You refuse?” 

“ Yes, monsieur.” 

“M. de Carmainges, you forget your oath of fidelity.” 

“Monsieur, I have sworn fidelity only to one person, and 


7 HE STABLE-YARD. 


U7 


that is the king ; if he asks me for the letter, he must have it, 
but he is not here.” 

“ M. de Carmainges,” said the duke, growing very angry,. 
“ you are like the rest of the Gascons ; blind in prosperity, your 
good fortune dazzles you, and the possession of a state secret 
is a weight too heavy for you to carry.” 

The only thing I find heavy, monsieur, is the disgrace 
into which I seem likely to fall ; not my fortune, which my 
refusal to obey ) ou renders, I know, very precarious ; but, 
no matter ; I do what I ought to do, and no one, excepting 
the king, shall see this letter, but the person to whom it is ad- 
dressed. ” 

“ De Loignac,” cried D’Epernon, “ place M. de Carmainges 
in arrest at once.” 

“It is certain that will prevent me from delivering the letter 
for a time, but once I come out * 

“ If you never do come out ?” 

“ I shall come out, monsieur ; unless you have me assassi- 
nated. Yes, I shall come out, the walls are less strong than my 
w 1', and then ” 

“Well?” 

“ I will speak to the king.” 

“ To prison with him, and take away *the letter,” cried 
D’Epernon, beside himself with rage. 

“No one shall touch it,” cried Ernanton, starting back and 
drawing from his breast the tablet of M. de Mayenne, “ for I 
will break it to pieces, since I can save it no other w r ay ; M. de 
Mayenne will approve my conduct, and the king will pardon 
me.” 

The young man was about to execute his threat, when a 
touch arrested his arm. He turned and saw the king, who, 
coming down the staircase behind them, had heard the end of 
the discussion. 

“ What is the matter, gentlemen ?” said he. 

“ Sire,” cried D’Epernon, furiously, “ this man, one of your 
Forty-five Guardsmen, of which he shall soon cease to form 
part, being sent by me to w r atch M. de Mayenne, in Paris, 
followed him to Orleans, and received from him a letter for 
Madame de Montpensier.” 

‘You have received this letter?” asked the king of Er- 
nanton. 


io — 2 


1 48 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


“ Yes, sire, but M. d’Epernon does not you tell under what 
circumstances. ” 

“ Well, where is this letter ?” 

“That is just the cause of the quarrel, sire. M. de Car- 
mainges resolutely refuses to give it to me, and determines to 
carry it to its address.'’ 

Carmainges bent one knee before the king. “ Sire,” said he, 
“ I am a poor gentleman, but a man of honour. I saved the 
life of your messenger, who was about to be assassinated by 
M. de Mayenne and six of his followers, for I arrived just in 
time to turn the fortune of the combat.” 

“ And M. de Mayenne ?” 

“Was dangerously wounded.” 

“ Well, after ?” 

“Your messenger, sire, who seemed to have a particular 
hatred of M. de Mayenne ” 

The king smiled. 

“ W shed to kill his enemy ; perhaps he nad the right, but 
I thought that in my presence, whose sword belongs to 
your majesty, this vengeance became a political assassination, 
and ” 

“Go on, monsieur.” 

“ I saved the life of M. de Mayenne, as I had saved that of 
your messenger.” 

D’Epernon shrugged his shoulders with a scornful smile. 

“ Go on,” said the king. 

“ M. de Mayenne, reduced to one companion, for the four 
others were killed, did not wish to separate from him, and, 
ignorant that I belonged to your majesty, confided to me a 
letter to his sister. I have this letter, sire, and here it is ; I 
offer it to your majesty who has the right to dispose of it and 
of rne. My honour is dear to me, sire, but I Diace it fearlessly 
in your hands.” 

Ernanton, so saying, held out the tablet to the king, who 
gently put them back. 

“ What did you say, D’Epernon ?” said he ; “ M. de Car- 
mainges is an honest man and a faithful servant.” 

“What did I say, sire?” 

“Yes; I heard you pronounce the word ‘prison.’ Mordieul 
on the contrary, when one meets a man like M. de Carmainges, 
it is reward we should speak of A letter, duke, belongs only 


THE STABLE-YARD. 


149 


to the bearer and to the person to whom it is sent. You will 
deliver your letter, M. de Carmainges.” 

“ But, sire,” said D’Epernon, “ think of what that letter may 
contain. Do not play at delicacy, when, perhaps, your majesty’s 
life is concerned.” 

“ You will deliver your letter, M. de Carmainges,” said the 
king. 

“ Thanks, sire,” said Carmainges, beginning to retire. 

“ Where do you take it ?” 

“ To Madame la Duchesse de Montpensier, I believed I had 
had the honour of telling your majesty.” 

“ I mean, to the Hotel Guise, St. Denis, or where?” 

“ I had no instructions on that subject, sire. I shall take 
the letter to the Hotel Guise, and there I shall learn where 
Madame de Montpensier is.” 

“ And when you have found her ?” 

“I will deliver my letter.” 

“ Just so. M. de Carmainges, have you promised anything 
else to M de Mayenne than to deliver that letter to his sister ?” 

“No, sire.” 

“ No secrecy as to the place where you find her?” 

“ No, sire.” 

“ Then I will impose only one condition on you. 

“ I am your majesty’s servant.” 

“ Deliver your letter, and then come to me at Vincennes, 
where I shall be this evening.” 

“ Yes, sire.” 

“ And you will tell me where you found the duchess ?” 

“ I will, sire.” 

“ I ask no other confidences ; remember.” 

“ Sire, I promise.” 

“ What imprudence, sire !” cried D’Epernon. 

“There are men you cannot understand, duke. This one 
is loyal to Mayenne, he will be loyal to me.” 

“ Towards you, sire, I shall be more than loyal — I shall be 
devoted,” cried Ernanton. 

“Now, D’Epernon, no more quarrels,” said the king; “and 
you must at once pardon in this brave fellow what you looked 
upon as a want of loyalty, but which I regard as a proof of 
honesty.” 

“ Sire,” said Ernanton, “ M. le Due is too superior a man 
not to have discovered, through my disobedience (for which I 


150 THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 

confess my regret), my respect for him ; only, before all things, 
I must do what I believe to be my duty.” 

“ Parfandious !” said the duke, changing his expression like 
a mask, “ this trial has done you honour, my dear Carmainges, 
and you are really a fine fellow — is he not, De Loignac ? How- 
ever, we gave him a good fright;” and the duke burst out 
laughing. 

De Loignac did not answer ; he could not lie like his illus- 
trious chief. 

“ If it was a trial, so much the better,” said the king, doubt- 
fully ; “ but I counsel you not to try these experiments often ; 
too many people would give way under them. Now, let us go, 
duke ; you accompany me ?” 

“ It was your majesty’s order that I should ride by the 
door ?” 

“ Yes ; and who goes tne other side ?” 

“A devoted servant of your majesty’s, M. de St. Maline,” 
said D’Epernon, glancing at Ernanton to see the effect of his 
words ; but Ernanton remained unmoved. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

“THE SEVEN SINS OF MAGDALENE. 

The king, however, on seeing his horses, did not wish to be 
done in the carriage, but desired D’Epernon to sit by him. 
De Loignac and St. Maline rode on each side, and an outrider 
m front. The king was, as usual, surrounded by dogs, and 
there was also a table in the carriage, covered with illuminated 
pictures, which the king cut out with wonderful skill, in spite 
of the movement of the carriage. He was just then occupied 
with the life of Magdalene, the sinner. The different pictures 
were labelled “ Magdalene gives way to the sin of anger,” — 
“ Magdalene gives way to the sin of gluttony,” and so on 
through the seven cardinal sins. The one that the king was 


TIIE SEVEN SINS OE MAGDALENE. 


*51 

occupied with, as they passed through the Porte St. Antoine, 
represented Magdalene giving way to anger. 

The beautiful sinner, half-lying on cushions, and with no 
other covering than the magnificent hair with which she was 
afterwards to wipe the feet of Jesus, was having a slave, who 
had broken a precious vase, thrown into a pond filled with 
lampreys, whose eager heads were protuding from the water; 
while on the other side, a woman, even less dressed than her 
mistress, as her hair was bound up, was being flogged, because 
she had, while dressing her mistress’s head, pulled out some of 
those magfiificent hairs, whose profusion might have rendered 
her more indulgent to such a fault. In the background were 
visible some dogs being whipped for having allowed beggars to 
pass quietly, and some cocks being murdered for having crowed 
too loudly in the morning. 

On arriving at the Croix-Faubin, the king had finished this 
figure, and was passing to “ Magdalene giving way to the sin of 
gluttony.” 

This represented a beautiful woman lying on one of those 
beds of purple and gold on which the ancients used to take 
their repasts; all that the Romans had most recherche in 
meat, in fish, and in fruit, dormice in honey, red mullets, 
lobsters from Stromboli, and pomegranates from Sicily, orna- 
mented the table, while on the ground some dogs were dis- 
puting for a pheasant, while the air was full of birds, which 
had carried off from the table figs, strawberries, and cherries. 
Magdalene held in her hand, filled with white liquor, one of 
those singularly-shaped glasses which Petronius has described 
in his feasts. 

Fully occupied with this important work, the king merely 
raised his eyes as they passed by the convent of the Jacobins, 
from which vespers was sounding on every bell, and of which 
every window and door was closed. 

But a hundred steps further on, an attentive observer would 
have seen him throw a more curious glance on a fine-looking 
house on his left, which, built in the midst of a charming 
garden, opened on the road. This house was called Bel-Esbat, 
and, unlike the convent, had every window open with the 
exception of one, before which hung a blind. As the king 
passed, this blind moved perceptibly ; Henri smiled at D’Eper- 
non, and then fell to work on another picture. This was the 
sin of luxury. The artist had represented this in such glowing 


152 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


colours, and had painted the sin with so much courage and 
minuteness, that we can only describe a small part of it, viz : — 
that Magdalene’s guardian angel was flying back to heaven 
affrighted, and hiding his face in his hands. All this occupied 
the king so much, that he never noticed an image of vanity 
who rode by his carriage. It was a pity ; for St. Maline was 
very happy and proud on his horse, as he rode so near that he 
could hear the king s.iy to his dog, “ Gently, M. Love, you get 
in my way or to M. le Due d’Epernon, “ Duke, I believe 
these horses will break my neck.” From time to time, how- 
ever, St. Maline glanced at De Loignac, who was too much 
accustomed to these honours not to be indifferent to them ; 
and he could not but feel the superiority of his calm and 
modest demeanour, and even would try to imitate, for a few 
minutes, until the thought would recur again, “ I am seen and 
looked at, and people say, ‘Who is that happy gentleman who 
accompanies the king ?’ ” St. Maline’s happiness seemed likely 
to last for a long time, for the horses, covered with harness 
heavy with gold and embroidery, and imprisoned in shafts like 
those of David’s ark, did not advance rapidly. But as he was 
growing too proud, something peculiarly annoying to him came 
to temper it down ; he heard the king pronounce the name of 
Ernanton, and not once, but two or three times. St Maline 
strained his attention to hear more, but some noise or move- 
ment always prevented him. Either the king uttered some 
exclamation of regret at an unlucky cut of the scissors, or one 
of the dogs began to bark. So that between Paris and Vin- 
cennes, the name of Ernanton had been pronounced six times 
by the king, and four times by D’Epernon, without St. Maline’s 
knowing the reas He persuaded himself that the king was 
merely inquiring the cause of Ernanton’s disappearance, and 
that D’Epernon was explaining it. At last they arrived at Vin- 
cennes, and as the king had still three sins to cut out, he went 
at once to his own room to finish them. It was a bitterly cold 
day, therefore St. Maline sat down in a chimney corner to 
warm himself, and was nearly falling asleep, when De Loignac 
put his hand on his shoulder. 

“ You must work to-day,” said he ; “ you snail sleep some 
other day ; so get up, M. de St. Maline.” 

“ I will not sleep for a fortnight, if necessary, monsieur.” 

“ Oh ! we shall not be so exacting as that.” 

“ What must I do, monsieur T 


THE SEVEN SINS OF MAGDALENE. 


I S3 


“ Get on your horse and return to Paris.” 

“ I am ready ; my horse is standing saddled.” 

“ Good ; go then straight to the room of the Forty-five, and 
awaken every one ; but excepting three, whom I will name to 
you, no one must know where he is going, nor what he is about 
to do.” 

“ I will obey these instructions implicitly.” 

“ Here then are some more ; leave fourteen of these gentle, 
men at the Porte St. Antoine, fifteen others half way, and bring 
the rest here.” 

“ Yes, monsieur ; but at what hour must we leave Paris ?” 

“ When night falls.” 

“ On horseback or on foot ?” 

“ On horseback.” 

“ Armed ?” 

“ Fully ; with daggers, pistols, and swords.” 

“ With armour ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“What else?” 

“ Here are three letters ; one for M. de Chalabre, one for M. 
do Biron, and one for yourself. M. de Chalabre will command 
the first party, M. de Biron the second, and yourself the 
third.” 

“ Good, monsieur.” 

“These letters are only to be opened at six o’clock. M. 
de Chalabre will open his at the Porte St. Antoine, M. de 
Biron his at the Croix Faubin, and you yours on your re- 
turn.” 

“ Must we come quickly ?” 

“As quickly as possible, without creating suspicion. Let 
each troop come out of Paris by a different gate ; M. de Cha- 
labre by the Porte Bourdelle ; M. de Biron by the Porte du 
Temple, and you through the Porte St. Antoine. All other in- 
structions are in the letters. Go quickly from here to the Croix 
Faubin, but then slowly ; you have still two hours before dark, 
which is more than necessary. Now do you well understand 
your orders ?” 

“ Perfectly, monsieur.” 

“ Fourteen in the first troop, fifteen in the second, and fif- 
teen in the third ; it is evident they do not count Ernanton, 
and that he no longer forms part of the Forty-five,” said St. 
Maline to himself when De Loignac was gone. 


54 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


He fulfilled all his directions punctually. When he arrived 
among the Forty-five, the greater number of them were already 
preparing for their supper. Thus the noble Lardille de Cha- 
vantrade had prepared a dish of mutton stewed with carrots 
and spices, after the method of Gascony, to which Militor had 
occasionally aided by trying the pieces of meat and vegetable 
with a fork. 

Pertinax de Montcrabeau, and the singular servant who 
spoke to him so familiarly, were preparing supper for themselves 
and six companions, who had each contributed six sous towards 
it; each one, in fact, was disposing according to his fancy 
of the money of his majesty Henri III. One might judge 
of the character of each man by the aspect of his little lodg- 
ing. Some loved flowers, and displayed on their window-sills 
some fading rose or geranium ; others had, like the king, a 
taste for pictures ; others had introduced a niece or house- 
keeper ; and M. d’Epernon had told M. de Loignac privately 
to shut his eyes on these things. At eight o’clock in winter, 
and ten in summer, they went to bed ; but always leaving 
fifteen on guard. As, however, it was but half-past five when 
St. Maline entered, he found every one about, and, as we said, 
gastronomically inclined. But with one word he put an end 
to all this : “ To horse, gentlemen,” said he ; and leading them 
without another word, went to explain his orders to MM. de 
Biron and Chalabre. Some, while buckling on their belts 
and grasping their cuirasses, ate great mouthfuls, washed 
down by a draught of wine ; and others, whose supper was 
less advanced, armed themselves with resignation. They called 
over the names, and only forty -four, including St. Maline, 
answered. 

“ M. Ernanton de Carmainges is missing,” said De Chalabre, 
whose turn it was to exercise these functions. A profound joy 
filled the heart of St. Maline, and a smile played on his lips, a 
rare thing with this sombre and envious man. 

The forty-four therefore set off on their different routes. 


BEL-ESBA T, 


*55 


CHAPTER XL. 

BEL-ESBAT. 

It is needless to say that Ernanton, whom St. Maline thought 
ruined, was, on the contrary, pursuing the course of his un- 
expected and ascending fortunes. He had, of course, gone 
first to the Hotel Guise. There, after having knocked at the 
great door and had it opened, he was only laughed at when he 
asked for an interview with the duchess. Then, as he insisted, 
they told him that he ought to know that her highness lived 
at Soissons and not at Paris. Ernanton was prepared for this 
reception, so it did not discourage him. 

“ I am grieved at her highness’s absence,” said he, “ for I 
had a communication of great importance to deliver to her from 
the Due de Mayenne.” 

“ From the Due de Mayenne ! Who charged you to de- 
liver it ?” 

“The duke himself.” 

“ The duke ! and where, pray ? for he is not at Paris 
either.!” 

“ I know that, as I met him on the road to Blois.” 

“On the road to Blois ?” said the porter, a little more at- 
tentive. 

“ Yes, and he there charged me with a message for Madame 
de Montpensier.” 

“ A message ?” 

“A letter.” 

“Where is it ?” 

“ Here,” said Ernanton, striking his doublet. 

“ Will you let me see it ?” 

“ Willingly.” And Ernanton drew out the letter. 

“ What singular ink !” said the man. 

“ It is blood,” said Ernanton, calmly. 

The porter grew pale at these words, and at the idea that 
this blood belonged to M. de Mayenne. At this time, when 


156 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEW 


there was great dearth of ink and abundance of blood spilled, 
it was not uncommon for lovers to write to their mistresses, or 
absent relations to their families, in this liquid. 

“ Monsieur,” said the servant, “ I do not know if you will 
find Madame de Montpensier in Paris or its environs; but go 
to a house in the Faubourg St. Antoine, called Bel-Esbat, which 
belongs to the duchess ; it is the first on the left hand going to 
Vincennes, after the convent of the Jacobins. You will be 
sure to find some one there in the service of the duchess suffi- 
ciently in her confidence to be able to tell you where Madame 
la Duchesse is just now.” 

“ Thank you,” said Ernanton, who saw that the man either 
could or would say no more. 

He found Bel-Esbat easily, and without more inquiries, rang, 
and the door opened. 

“ Enter,” said a man, who then seemed to wait for some 
password, but as Ernanton did not give any, he asked him what 
he wanted. 

“ I wish to speak to Madame la Duchesse de Mont- 
pensier.” 

“ And why do you come here for her ?” 

“ Because the porter at the Hotel Guise sent me here.” 

“ Madame la Duchesse is not here.” 

“ That is unlucky, as it will prevent me from fulfilling the 
mission with which M. de Mayenne charged me.” 

“ For Madame la Duchesse ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ From M. le Due de Mayenne ?” 

“ Yes.” 

The valet reflected a moment. “ Monsieur,” said he, “ I 
cannot answer ; there is some one else whom I must consult. 
Please to wait.” 

“ These people are well served,” thought Ernanton. “ Cer- 
tainly, they must be dangerous people who think it necessary to 
hide themselves in this manner. One cannot enter a house of 
the Guises as you can the Louvre. I begin to think that it is 
not the true King of France whom I serve.” 

He looked round him ; the courtyard was oeserted, but all 
the doors of the stables were open, as if they expected some 
troop to enter and take up their quarters. He was interrupted 
by the return of the valet, followed by another. 

“ Leave me your horse, monsieur,” said he, “ and fellow my 


BEL-ESBA T. 


157 


comrade ; you will find some one who can answer you much 
better than I can.” 

Ernanton followed the valet, and was shown into a little room, 
where a simply though elegantly dressed lady was seated at an 
embroidery frame. 

“Here is the gentleman from M. de Mayenne, madame,” 
said the servant. 

She turned, and Ernanton uttered a cry of surprise. 

“ You, madame !” cried he, recognising at once his page and 
the lady of the litter. 

“ You !” cried the lady in her turn, letting her work drop, 
and looking at Ernanton. 

“ Leave us,” said she to the valet. 

“ You are of the household of Madame de Montpensier, 
madame ?” said Ernanton. 

“ Yes ; but you, monsieur, how do you bring here a message 
from the Due de Mayenne ?” 

“ Through unforeseen circumstances, which it would take 
too long to repeat,” replied Ernanton, cautiously. 

“Oh ! you are discreet, monsieur,” said the lady, smiling. 

“Yes, madame, whenever it is right to be so.” 

“ But I see no occasion for your discretion here ; for, if 

you really bring a message from the person you say Oh ! 

do not look angry ; if you really do, I say, it interests me suffi- 
ciently that, in remembrance of our acquaintance, short though 
it was, you should tell it to me.” 

The lady threw into these words all the caressing and seduc- 
tive grace that a pretty woman can. 

“ Madame,” replied Ernanton, “ you cannot make me tell 
what I do not know.” 

“ And still less what you will not tell.” 

“ Madame, all my mission consists in delivering a letter to 
her highness.” 

“ Well, then, give me the letter,” said the lady, holding out 
her hand. 

“ Madame, I believed I had had the honour of telling you 
that this letter was addressed to the duchess.” 

“ But, as the duchess is absent, and I represent her here, 
you may ” 

“ I cannot, madame.” 

“ You distrust me, monsieur ?” 

“ I ought to do so, madame ; but,” said the young man. 


i 5 8 


THE FORTY- FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


with an expression there was no mistaking, “ in spite of the 
mystery of your conduct, you have inspired me, I confess, with 
very different sentiments.” 

“ Really,” said the lady, colouring a little under Emanton’s 
ardent gaze. 

Ernanton bowed. 

“ Take care, monsieur,” said she, laughing, “ you are making 
a declaration of love.” 

“ Yes, madame ; I do not know if I may ever see you again, 
and the opportunity is too precious for me to let it slip.” 

“Then, monsieur, I understand.” 

“That I love you, madame ; that is easy to understand.”' 

“ No, but how you came here.” 

“Ah, pardon, madame, but now it is I who do not under- 
stand.” 

“ I think that, wishing to see me again, you invented a 
pretext to get in.” 

“ I, madame ! you judge me ill. I was ignorant if I should 
ever see you again, and I hoped only from chance, which 
already had twice thrown me in your way ; but invent a pretext 
I could never do. I am strange, perhaps ; I do not think like 
all the world.” 

“ Oh ! you say you are in love, and you have scruples as to 
the manner of introducing yourself again to her you love. It is 
very fine, monsieur, but I partly guessed it.” 

“ How, madame, if you please ?” 

“ The other day you met me ; I was in a litter, you recog- 
nised me, and you did not follow me.” 

“ Madame, you are confessing you paid some attention to 
me ” 

“ And why not ? Surely the way in which we first met 
justified my putting my head out of my litter to look after you 
when you passed. But you galloped away, after uttering an 
‘Ah !’ which made me tremble in my litter.” 

“I was forced to go away, madame.” 

“ By your scruples ?” 

“ No, madame, by my duty.” 

“ Well 1” said the lady, laughing, “ I see that you are a 
reasonable, circumspect lover, who, above all things, fears to 
compromise himself.” 

“ If you had inspired me with certain fears, there would be 
nothing astonishing in it. Is it customary that a woman should 


BEL-ESBAT. 


*59 

dress as a man, force the barriers, and come to see an unfor- 
tunate wretch drawn to pieces, using meanwhile all sorts of ges- 
ticulations perfectly incomprehensible ?” 

The lady grew rather pale, although she tried to smile. 

Ernanton went on. “ Is it natural also that this lady, after 
this strange announcement, fearful of being arrested, should 
fly as though she were a thief, although she is in the service of 
Madame de Montpensier, a powerful princess, although not 
much in favour at court ?” 

This time the lady smiled again, but ironically. 

“ You are not clear-sighted, monsieur, in spite of your pre- 
tension to be an observer ; for, with a little sense, all that 
seems obscure to you would have been explained. Was it not 
very natural that Madame de Montpensier should be interested 
in the fate of M. de Salcede, in what he might be tempted to 
say, what true or false revelations he might utter to compromise 
the house of Lorraine ? And if that was natural, monsieur, 
was it not also so, that this princess should Send some one, 
some safe, intimate friend, to be present at the execution, and 
bring her all the details ? Well, monsieur, this person was I. 
Now, do you think I could go in my woman’s dress ? Do you 
think I could remain indifferent to what was going on ?” 

“ You are right, madame ; and now I admire as much your 
logic and talent as I did before your beauty.” 

“ Thank you, monsieur. And now that we know each other, 
and that everything is explained, give me the letter, since it 
does exist.” 

“ Impossible, madame.” 

The unknown seemed trying not to grow angry. “ Impos- 
sible ?” repeated she. 

“ Yes, impossible ; for I swore to M. de Mayenne to deliver 
it only to the duchess herself.” 

“ Say, rather,” cried the lady, giving way to her irritation, 
“ that you have no letter ; that, in spite of your pretended 
scruples, it was a mere pretext for getting in here ; that you 
wished to see me again, and that was all. Well, monsieur, you 
are satisfied ; not only you have effected your entrance, but you 
have seen me, and have told me you adore me.” 

“ In that, as in all the rest, I have told you truth, madame. ” 

“ Well, so be it, you adore me ; you wished to see me, and 
you have seen me. I have procured you a pleasure in return 
for a service. We are quits. Adieu !” 


i6o 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


“I will obey you, madame; since you send me away, I will 

go-” 

“ Yes,” cried she, now really angry, “ but if you know me, 
I do not know you. You have too much advantage over me. 
Ah ! you think you can enter, on some pretext, into the house 
of a princess, and go away and say, ‘ I succeeded in my 
perfidy.’ Ah ! monsieur, that is not the behaviour of a gallant 
man.” 

“ It seems to me, madame, that you are very hard on what 
would have been, after all, only a trick of love, if it had not 
been, as I have already told you, an affair of the greatest im- 
portance. I put aside all your injurious expressions, and I will 
forget all I might have said, affectionate or tender, since you are 
so badly disposed towards me. But I will not go out from 
here under the weight of your unworthy suspicions. I have a 
letter from the duke for Madame de Montpensier, and here it 
is ; you can see the handwriting and the address.” 

Ernanton held out the letter to the lady, but without leaving 
go of it. 

She cast her eyes on it, and cried, “ His writing ! Blood !” 

Without replying, Ernanton put the letter back in his 
pocket, bowed low, and, very pale and bitterly hurt, turned to 
go. But she ran after him, and caught him by the skirt of his 
cloak. 

“ What is it, madame ?” said he. 

“ For pity’s sake, pardon me ; has any accident happened 
to the duke ?” 

“ You ask me to pardon you, only that you may read this 
letter, and I have already told you that no one shall read it but 
the duchess.” 

“Ah ! obstinate and stupid that you are,” cried the duchess, 
with a fury mingled with majesty ; “ do you not recognise me ? 
— or rather, could you not divine that I was the mistress ? — 
and are these the eyes of a servant ? I am the Duchesse de 
Montpensier; give me the letter.” 

“ You are the duchess !” cried Ernanton, starting back. 

“Yes, I am. Give it to me ; I want to know what has hap- 
pened to my brother.” 

But instead of obeying, as the duchess expected, the young 
man, recovering from his first surprise, crossed his arms. 

, “ How can I believe you, when you have already lied to me 

twice ?” said he. 


BEL-ESBA T. 


161 

The duchess’s eyes shot forth fire at these words, but Ernan- 
ton stood firm. 

“ Ah ! you doubt still — you want proofs !” cried she, tearing 
her lace ruffles with rage. 

“Yes, madame.” 

She darted towards the bell, and rang it furiously ; a valet 
appeared. 

“ What does madame want ?” said he. 

She stamped her foot with rage. “ Mayneville !” cried she, 
“ I want Mayneville. Is he not here ?” 

“Yes. madame.” 

“ Let him come here.” 

The valet went, and, a minute after, Mayneville entered. • 

“ Did you send for me, madame ?” said he. 

“ Madame ! And since when am I simply madame ?” cried 
she angrily. 

“ Your highness !” said Mayneville, in surprise. 

“ Good !” said Ernanton, “ I have now a gentleman before 
me, and if he has lied, I shall know what to do.” 

“ You believe then, at last?” said the duchess. 

“ Yes, madame, I believe, and here is the letter and, bow- 
ing, the young man gave to Madame de Montpensier the letter 
so long disputed. 


THE FORTY- FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


1 5 z 


CHAPTER XLI. 

THE LETTER OF M. DE MAYENNE. 

The duchess seized the letter, opened it, and read it eagerly, 
while various expressions passed o/er her face, like clouds over 
the sky. When she had finished, she gave it to Mayneville to 
read. It was as follows : 

“ My Sister, 

“ I tried to do myself the work I should have left to 
others, and I have been punished for it. I have received a 
sword wound from the fellow whom you know. The worst of 
it is, that he has killed five of my men, and among them 
Boularon and Desnoises, who are my best, after which he fled. 
I must tell you that he was aided by the bearer of this letter, a 
charming young man, as you may see. I recommend him to 
you ; he is discretion itself. 

“ One merit which he will have, I presume, in your eyes, my 
dear sister, is having prevented my conqueror from killing me, 
as he much wished, having pulled off my mask when I had 
fainted, and recognised me. 

“ I recommend you, sister, to discover the name and profes- 
sion of this discreet cavalier ; for I suspect him, while he in- 
terests me. To my offers of service, he replied that the master 
whom he served let him want for nothing. 

“ I can tell you no more about him, but that he pretends not 
to know me. I suffer much, but believe my life is not in 
danger. Send me my surgeon at once ; I am lying like a 
horse upon straw, the bearer will tell you where. 

“ Your affectionate brother, 

“ Mayenne.” 

When they had finished reading, the duchess and Mayneville 
looked at each other in astonishment. The duchess broke the 
silence first. 


THE LETTER OF M. DE MA YE AWE. 163 

“To whom,” said she, “ do we owe the signal service that you 
have rendered us, monsieur ?” 

“To a man who, whenever he can, helps the weak against 
the strong.” 

“ Will you give me some details, monsieur ?” 

Ernanton told all he had seen, and named the duke’s place 
of retreat. 

Madame de Montpensier and Mayneville listened with in- 
terest. When he had finished, the duchess said : 

“ May I hope, monsieur, that you will continue the work so 
well begun, and attach yourself to our house ?” 

These words, said in the gracious tone that the duchess knew 
so well how to use, were very flattering to Ernanton, after the 
avowal which he had made ; but the young man, putting vanity 
aside, attributed them to simple curiosity. 

He knew well that the king, in making it a condition that he 
should reveal the duchess’s place of abode, had some object in 
view. Two interests contended within him — his love, that he 
might sacrifice ; and his honour, which he could not. The 
temptation was all the stronger, that by avowing his position 
near the king, he should gain an enormous importance in the 
eyes of the duchess ; and it was not a light consideration for a 
young man to be important in the eyes of the Duchesse de 
Montpensier. St. Maline would not have resisted a minute. 
All these thoughts rushed through Ernanton’s mind, but ended 
by making him stronger than before. 

“ Madame,” said he, “ I have already had the honour of tell- 
ing M. de Mayenne that I serve a good master, who treats me 
too well for me to desire to seek another.” 

“ My brother tells me in his letter, monsieur, that you seemed 
not to recognise him. How, if you did not know him, then, 
did you use his name to penetrate to me?” 

“ M. de Mayenne seemed to wish to preserve his incognito, 
madame ; and I, therefore, did not think I ought to recognise 
him ; and it might have been disagreeable for the peasants to 
know what an illustrious guest they were entertaining. Here 
there was no reason for secrecy ; on the contrary, the name of 
M. de Mayenne opened the way to you ; so I thought that here, 
as there, I acted rightly.” 

The duchess smiled, and said, “ No one could extricate him- 
self better from an embarrassing question : and you are, I must 
confess, a clever man.” 


11 — 2 


164 


T1IE FORTY-FIVE GUARDS ME A 7 . 


“ I see no cleverness in what I have had the honour of tell- 
ing you, madame.” 

“ Well, monsieur,” said the duchess, impatiently, “ I see 
clearly that you will tell nothing. You do not reflect that grati- 
tude is a heavy burden for one of my house to bear ; that you 
have twice rendered me a service, and that if I wished to know 
your name, or rather who you are ” 

“ I know, madame, you would learn it easily ; but you would 
learn it from some one else, and I should have told nothing.” 

“He is always right,” cried the duchess, with a look which 
gave Ernanton more pleasure than ever a look had done before. 
Therefore he asked no more, but like the gourmand who leaves 
the table when he thinks he has had the best bit, he bowed, and 
prepared to take leave. 

“ Then, monsieur, that is all you have to tell me ?” asked the 
duchess. 

“ I have executed my commission, and it only remains for 
me to present my humble respects to your highness.” 

The duchess let him go, but when the door shut behind him, 
;he stamped her foot impatiently. 

“ Mayneville,” said she, “ have that young man followed” 

“ Impossible, madame ; all our household are out, I myself 
am waiting for the event. It is a bad day on which to do any- 
thing else than what we have decided to do.” 

“ You are right, Mayneville ; but afterwards ” 

“ Oh ! afterwards, if you please, madame.” 

“ Yes ; for T suspect him, as my brother does.” 

“ He is a brave fellow, at all events ; and really we are lucky, 
a stranger coming to render us such a service.” 

“ Nevertheless, Mayneville, have him watched. But night is 
falling, and Valois must be returning from Vincennes.” 

“ Oh ! we have time before us ; it is not eight o’clock, and 
our men have not arrived.” 

“ All have the word, have they not ?” 

“All.” 

“ They are trustworthy ?” 

“Tried, madame.” 

“ How many do you expect ?” 

“ Fifty ; it is more than necessary, for besides them we have 
two hundred monks, as good as soldiers, if not better.” 

“ As soon as our men have arrived, range your monks on the 
road.” 


THE LETTER OF M. DE MAYENNE. 165 

“ They are all ready, madame ; they will intercept the way, 
our men will push the carriage towards them, the gates of the 
convent will be open, and will have but to close behind the 
carriage.” 

“ Let us sup, then, Mayneville, it will pass the time. I am 
so impatient, I should like to push the hands of the clock.” 

“ The hour will come; be easy.” 

“ But our men ?” 

“ They will be here ; it is hardly eight.” 

“Mayneville, my poor brother asks for his surgeon ; the best 
surgeon, the best cure for his wound, will be a lock of the 
Valois’ shaved head, and the man who should carry him that 
present, Mayneville, would be sure to be welcome.” 

“ In two hours, madame, that man shall set out to find our 
dear duke in his retreat ; he who went out of Paris as a fugitive 
shall return triumpha.»Jy.” 

“ One word more, Mayneville ; are our friends in Paris 
warned ?” 

“What friends?” 

“The leaguers” 

“ Heaven forbid, madame ; to tell a bourgeois is to tell all 
Paris. Once the deed is done, and the prisoner safe in the 
cloister, we can defend ourselves against an army. Then we 
should risk nothing by crying from the roof of the convent, 
4 We have the Valois !’ ” 

“ You are both skilful and prudent, Mayneville. Do you 
know, though, that my responsibility is great, and that no 
woman will ever have conceived and executed such a pro- 
ject ?” 

“ I know it, madame ; therefore I counsel you in trem- 
bling.” 

“ The monks will be armed under their robes ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Mind you kill those two fellows whom we saw pass, riding 
at the sides of the carriage, then we can describe what passes 
as pleases us best.” 

“ Kill those poor devils, madame ! do you think that ne- 
cessary ?” 

“ De Loignac ! would he be a great loss ?” 

“ He is a brave soldier.” 

“ A parvenu, like that other ill-looking fellow who pranced 
on the left, with his fiery eyes and his black skin.” 


1 66 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


“ Oh ! that one I do not care so much about ; I do not 
know him, and I agree with your highness in disliking his 
looks.” 

“ Then you abandon him to me ?” laughed the duchess. 

“ Oh ! yes, madame. What I said was only for your renown, 
and the morality of the party that we represent. ” 

Good ; Mayneville, I know you are a virtuous man, and I 
will sign you a certificate of it if you like. You need have nothing 
to do with it ; they wilf defend the Valois and get killed. To 
you I recommend that young man.” 

“ Who ?” 

“ He who just left us ; see if he be really gone, and if he be 
not some spy sent by our enemies.” 

Mayneville opened the window, and tried to look out. 

“Oh ! what a dark night,” said he. 

“ An excellent night ; the darker the better. Therefore, good 
courage, my captain.” 

“ Yes, but we shall see nothing.” 

“ God, whom we fight for, will see for us.” 

Mayneville, who did not seem quite so sure of the interven- 
tion of Providence in affairs of this nature, remained at the 
window looking out. 

“ Do you see any one ?” asked the duchess. 

“ No, but I hear the tramp of horses.” 

“ It is they ; all goes well.” And the duchess touched the 
famous pair of golden scissors at her side. 


GO ALA FLO T FLEXES THE KING 


167 


CHAPTER XLII. 

HOW DOM GORENFLOT BLESSED THE KING AS HE PASSED 
BEFORE THE PRIORY OF THE JACOBINS. 

Ernanton went away with a full heart but a quiet conscience: 
he had had the singular good fortune to declare his love to a 
princess, and to get over the awkwardness which might have 
resulted from it by the important conversation which followed. 
He had neither betrayed the king, M. de Mayenne, nor him- 
self. Therefore he was content, but he still wished for many 
things, and, among others, a quick return to Vincennes, where 
the king expected him ; then to go to bed and dream. He set 
off at full gallop as soon as he left Bel-Esbat, but he had scarcely 
gone a hundred yards when he came on a body of cavaliers who 
stretched right across the road. He was surrounded in a 
minute, and half-a dozen swords and pistols presented at him. 

“ Oh !” said Ernanton, “ robbers on the road, a league from 
Paris ” 

“ Silence, if you please,” said a voice that Ernanton thought 
he recognised. “ Vour sword, your arms ; quick.” 

And one man seized the bridle of the horse, while another 
stripped him of his arms. 

“ Peste ! what clever thieves !” said Ernanton. “ At least, 
gentlemen, do me the favour to tell me ” 

“ Why it is M. de Carmainges !” said the man who had 
seized his sword. 

“ M. de Pincornay !” cried Ernanton. “ Oh, fie ; what a bad 
trade you have taken up.” 

“ I said silence,” cried the voice of the chief; “and take this 
man to the depot.” 

“ But, M. de St. Maline, it is our companion, Ernanton de 
Carmainges.” 

“ Ernanton here !” cried St. Maline, angrily ; “ what is he 
doing here ?” 

“ Good evening, gentlemen,” said Carmainges ; “ I did not, 
l confess, expect to find so much good company.” 


1 68 THE FORTY -FIVE GUARDSMEN. 

“ Diable !” growled St. Maline ; “ this is unforeseen.” 

“ By me also, I assure you,” said Ernanton, laughing. 

“ It is embarrassing ; what were you doing here ?” 

“ If I asked you that question, would you answer ?” 

“ No.” 

“Then let me act as you would.” 

“ Then you will not tell me ?” 

“No.” 

“Nor where you were going?” 

Ernanton did not answer. 

“ Then, monsieur, since you do not expiam, I must treat you 
like any other man.” 

“ Do what you please, monsieur ; only I warn you, you will 
have to answer for it.” 

“To M. de Loignac ?” 

“ Higher than that.” 

“ M. d’Epernon ?” 

“ Higher still.” 

“Well, I have my orders, and I shall send you to Vin- 
cennes.” 

“ That is capital ; it is just where I was going.” 

“ It is lucky that this little journey pleases you so much.” 

Ernanton was then conducted by his companions to the 
court-yard of Vincennes. Here he found fifty disarmed cava- 
liers, who, looking pale and dispirited, and surrounded by fifty 
light horse, were deploring their bad fortune, and anticipating a 
disastrous ending to an enterprise so w r ell planned. The Forty- 
five hid taken all these men, either by force or cunning, as they 
had, for precaution, come to the rendezvous either singly, or 
two or three together at most. Now all this would have re- 
joiced Ernanton had he understood it, but he saw without 
understanding. 

“ Monsieur,” said he to St. Maline, “ I see that you were 
told of the importance of my mission, and that, fearing some 
accident for me, you were good enough to take the trouble to 
escort me here ; now I will tell you that you were right ; the 
king expects me, and I have important things to say to him. I 
will tell the king what you have done for his service.” 

St. Maline grew red and then pale ; but he understood, being 
clever when not blinded by passion, that Ernanton spoke the 
truth, and that he was expected. There was no joking with 
MM. de Loignac and d’Epernon ; therefore he said, “ You are 


SOREKFLOT BLESSES THE KING. 169 

free, M. Ernanton ; I am delighted to have been agreeable to 
you.” 

Ernanton waited for no more, but began to mount the stair- 
case which led to the king’s room. St. Maline followed him 
with his eyes, and saw De Loignac meet him on the stairs, 
and sign to him to come on. De Loignac then descended to 
see the captives with his own eyes, and pronounced the road 
perfectly safe and free for the king’s return. He knew nothing 
of the Jacobin convent, and the artillery and musketry of the 
fathers. But D’Epernon did, being perfectly informed by 
Nicholas Poulain. Therefore, when De Loignac came and 
said to his chief, “ Monsieur, the roads are free,” D’Epernon 
replied : 

“ Very well, the king orders that the Forty-five guards form 
themselves into three compact bodies, one to go before and one 
on each side of the carriage, so that if there be any firing it may 
not reach the carriage.” 

“ Very good !” said De Loignac, “ only I do not see where 
firing is to come from.” 

“ At the priory of the Jacobins, monsieur, they must draw 
close.” 

This dialogue was interrupted by the king, who descended the 
staircase, followed by several gentlemen, among whom St. 
Maline, with rage in his heart, recognised Ernanton. 

“Gentlemen,” said the king, “are my brave Forty-five all 
here ?” 

“ Yes, sire,” said D’Epernon, showing them. 

“ Have the orders been given ?” 

“ Yes, sire, and will be followed.” 

“ Let us go, then !” 

The light horse were left in charge of the prisoners, and 
forbidden to address a word to them. The king got into his 
carriage with his naked sword by his side, and, as nine o’clock 
struck, they set off. 

M. de Mayneville was still at his window, only he was in- 
finitely less tranquil and hopeful, for none of his soldiers had 
appeared, and the only sound heard along the silent black road 
was now and then horses’ feet on the road to Vincennes. When 
this occurred, Mayneville and the duchess vainly tried to see 
what was going on. At last Mayneville became so anxious that 
he sent off a man on horseback, telling him to inquire of the 


170 


THE FORTY FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


first body of cavaliers they met. The messenger did not return, 
so the duchess sent another, but neither reappeared. 

“ Our officer,” said the duchess, always hopeful, “ must have 
been afraid of not having sufficient force, and must have kept 
our men to help him ; it is prudent, but it makes one anxious.” 

“ Yes, very anxious,” said Mayneville, whose eyes never 
quitted the horizon. 

“ Mayneville, what can have happened ?” 

“ I will go myself, madame, and find out.” 

“ Oh, no ! I forbid that. Who would stay with me, who 
would know our friends, when the time comes? No, no, stay, 
Mayneville ; one is naturally apprehensive when a secret of this 
importance is concerned, but, really, the plan was too well com- 
bined, and, above all, too secret, not to succeed.” 

“ Nine o’clock !” replied Mayneville, rather to himself than to 
the duchess. “ Well ! here are the Jacobins coming out of 
their convent, and ranging themselves along the walls.” 

“ Listen !” cried the duchess. They began to hear from afar 
a noise like thunder. 

“ It is cavalry !” cried the duchess ; “ they are bringing him, 
we have him at last f and she clapped her hands in the wildest 

j°y* , . . 

“ Yes,’ said Mayneville, “ I hear a carriage and the gallop 
of horses.” 

And he cried out loudly, “ Outside the walls, my brothers, 
outside !” 

Immediately the gates of the priory opened, and a hundred 
armed monks marched out, with Borromee at their head, and 
they heard Gorenflot’s voice crying, “ Wait for me, wait for 
me ; I must be at the head to receive his majesty.” 

“ Go to the balcony, prior,” cried Borromee, “ and overlook 
us all.” 

“ Ah ! true ; I forgot that I had chosen that place, but 
luckily you are here to remind me.” 

Borromee despatched four monks to stand behind the prior, 
on the pretence of doing him honour. 

Soon the road was illumined by a number of torches, thanks 
to which the duchess and Mayneville could see cuirasses and 
swords shining. Incapable of moderation, she cried, — 

“ Go down, Mayneville, and bring him to me.” 

“Yes, madame, but one thing disquiets me.” 

“ What is it ?” 


GORENFLOT BLESSES THE KING. 


I7i 


“ I do not hear the signal agreed on.’ 

“ What use is the signal, since they have him ?” 

“But they were to arrest him only here, before the priory.® 

“ They must have found a good opportunity earlier.” 

“ I do not see our officer.” 

“ I do ” 

“ Where ?” 

“ See that red plume.” 

“ Ventrebleu ! that red plume ” 

“Well ?” 

“ It is M. d’Epernon, sword in hand.” 

“ They have left him his sword.” 

“ Mordieu ! he commands.” 

“Our people ! There has been treason.” 

“ Oh ! madame ; they are not our ^eople.” 

“You are mad, Mayneville !” 

But at that moment De Loignac, at the head of the first 
body of guards, cried, brandishing his large sword, “ Vive le 
Roi !” 

“Vive le Roi!” replied enthusiastically all the Forty five, 
with their Gascon accent. The duchess grew pale and sank 
down almost fainting. Mayneville, sombre, but resolute, drew 
his sword, not knowing but what the house was to be attacked. 
The cortege advanced, and had reached Bel-Esbat. Borromee 
came a little forward, and as De Loignac rode straight up to 
him, he immediately saw that all was lost, and determined on 
his part. 

“ Room for the king !” cried De Loignac. Gorenflot, de- 
lighted with the scene, extended his powerful arm and blessed 
the king from his balcony. Henri saw him, and bowed smil- 
ingly, and at this mark of favour Gorenflot gave out a “ Vive 
le Roi !” with his stentorian voice. The rest, however, re- 
mained mute ; they expected a different result from their two 
months’ training. But Borromee, feeling certain from the 
absence of the duchess’s troops of the fate of the enterprise, 
knew that to hesitate a moment was to be ruined, and he 
answered with a “ Vive le Roi !” almost as sonorous as Goren- 
flot’s. Then all the rest took it up. 

“ Thanks, reverend father, thanks,” cried Henri ; and then 
he passed the convent, where his course was to have terminated, 
like a whirlwind of fire, noise, and glory, leaving behind him 
Bel-Esbat in obscurity. 


172 


THE FORTY- FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


From her balcony, hidden by the golden scutcheon, behind 
which she was kneeling, the duc hess saw and examined each 
face on which the light of the torches fell. 

“ Oh !” cried she, “ look, Mayneville ! That young man, 
my brother’s messenger, is in the king’s service ! We are lost !” 

“ We must fly immediately, madame, now the Valois is 
conqueror.” 

“ We have been betrayed ; it must have been by that young 
man, he must have known all.” 

The king had already, with all his escort, entered the 
Porte St. Antoine, which had opened before him and shut 
behind him. 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

HOW CHICOT BLESSED KING LOUIS II. FOR HAVING INVENTED 
POSTING, AND RESOLVED TO PROFIT BY IT. 

Chicot, to whom our readers will now permit us to return, 
after his last adventure, went on as rapidly as possib'e. Be- 
tween the duke and him would now exist a mortal struggle, 
which would end only with life. Mayenne, w r ounded in his 
body, and still more grievously in his self-love, would never 
forgive him. Skilful in all mimicry, Chicot now pretended to 
be a great lord, as he had before imitated a good bourgeois, 
and thus never prince was served with more zeal than M. 
Chicot, when he had sold Ernanton’s horse and had talked for 
a quarter of an hour with the postmaster. Chicot, once in the 
saddle, was determined not to stop until he reached a place of 
safety, and he went as quickly as constant fresh relays of horse s 
could manage. He himself seemed made of iron, and, at the 
end of sixty leagues, accomplished in twenty hours, to feel no 
fatigue. When, thanks to this rapidity, in three days he reached 
Bordeaux, he thought he might take breath. A man can think 
while he gallops, and Chicot thought much. What kind of 
prince was he about to find in that strange Henri, whom some 
thought a fool, others a coward, and all a renegade withput 


CHICOT BLI.SSTS KING LOUIS II. 


73 


firmness. But Chicot’s opinion was rather different to that of 
the rest of the world ; and he was clever at divining what lay 
below the surface. Henri of Navarre was to him an enigma, 
although an unsolved one. But to know that he w r as an enigma 
was to have found out much. Chicot knew more than others, 
by knowing, like the old Grecian sage, that he knew nothing. 
Therefore, where most people would have gone to speak freely, 
and with their hearts on their lips, Chicot felt that he must pro- 
ceed cautiously, and with carefully-guarded words. All this 
was impressed on his mind by his natural penetration, and also 
by the aspect of the country through which he was passing. 
Once within the limits of the little principality of Navarre, a 
country whose poverty was proverbial in France, Chicot, to his 
great astonishment, ceased to see the impress of that misery 
which showed itself in every house and on every face in the 
finest provinces of that fertile France which he had just left. 
The wood-cutter who passed along, w ith his arm leaning on the 
yoke of his favourite ox, the girl w r ith short petticoats and quiet 
steps, carrying w r ater on her head, the old man humming a song 
of his youthful days, the tame bird w 7 ho w^arbled in his cage, or 
pecked at his plentiful supply of food, the brown, thin, but 
healthy children playing about the roads, all said in a language 
clear and intelligible to Chicot, “ See, we are happy here.” 

Often he heard the sound of heavy wheels, and then saw 
coming along the wagon of the vintages, full of casks and of 
children with red faces. Sometimes an arquebuse from behind 
a hedge, or vines, or fig-trees, made him tremble for fear of an 
ambush, but it always turned out to be a hunter, followed by 
his great dogs, traversing the plain, plentiful in hares, to reach 
the mountain, equally full of partridges and heathcocks. Al- 
though the season was advanced, and Chicot had left Paris full 
of fog and hoar-frost, it was here w r arm and fine. The great 
trees, w’hich had not yet entirely lost their leaves, which, indeed, 
in the south they never lose entirely, threw 7 deep shadows from 
their reddening tops. 

The Bearnais peasants, their caps over one ear, rode about 
on the little cheap horses of the country, which seem indefatig- 
able, go tw'enty leagues at a stretch, and, never combed, never 
covered, give themselves a shake at the end of their journey, 
and go to graze on the first tuft of heath, their only and suffic- 
ing repast. 

“Ventre de biche 1” said Chicot; “I have never seen Gas- 


174 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


cony so rich. I confess the letter weighs on my mind, although 
I have translated it into Latin. However, I have never heard 
that Hem iot, as Charles IX. called him, knew Latin , so I will 
give him a free French translation.” 

Chicot inquired, and was told that the king was at Nerac. 
He turned to the left to reach this place, and found the road 
full of people returning from the market at Condom. He 
learned, for Chicot, careful in answering the questions of others, 
was a great questioner himself, that the King of Navarre led a 
very joyous life, and was always changing from one love to 
another. 

He formed the acquaintance of a young Catholic priest, 
a sheep-owner, and an officer, who had joined company on 
the road, and were travelling together This chance associa- 
tion seemed to him to represent Navarre, learned, commercial, 
and military. 

The officer recounted to him several sonnets which had been 
made on the loves of the king and the beautiful La Fosseuse, 
daughter of Rene de Montmorency, Baron de Fosseux. 

“ Oh !” said Chicot ; “ in Paris, we believe that the king is 
mad about Madlle. de Rebours.” 

“ Oh ! that is at Pau.” 

“ What ! has the king a mistress in every town ?” 

“Very likely; I know that he was the lover of Madlle. de 
Dayelle, while I was in garrison at Castelnaudry.” 

“ Oh ! Madlle. Dayelle, a Greek, was she not ?” 

“ Yes,” said the priest ; “ a Cyprian.” 

“ I am from Agen,” said the merchant; “and I know that 
when the king was there he made love to Madlle. de Tig- 
nonville.” 

“Ventre de biche !” said Chicot; “he is a universal lover. 
But to return to Madlle. Dayelle ; I knew her family.” 

“ She was jealous and was always threatening ; she had a 
pretty little poniard, which she used to keep on her work-table, 
and one day, the king went away and carried the poniard with 
him, saying that he did not wish any misfortune to happen to 
his successor.” 

“ And Madlle. de Rebours ?” 

“ Oh ! they quarrelled.” 

“ Then La Fosseuse is the last ?” 

u Oh ! mon Dieu ! yes ; the king is mad about her.” 

“ But what does the queen say ?” 


CHICOT BLESSES A’LYG LOT IS IT. 175 

“ She carries her griefs to the foot ©f the crucifix,” said the 
priest. 

“ Besides,” said the officer, “ she is ignorant of all. these 
things.” 

“ That is not possible,” said Chicot. 

“ Why so ?” 

“ Because Nerac is not so large that it is easy to hide things 
there.” 

“ As for that, there is a park there containing avenues more 
than 3,000 feet long of cypresses, plane trees, and magnificent 
sycamores, and the shade is so thick it is almost dark in broad 
daylight. Think what it must be at night.” 

“ And then the queen is much occupied.” 

“ Occupied ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ With wnom, pray ?” 

“ With God, monsieur,” said the priest 

“With God?” 

“ Yes, the queen is religious.” 

“ Religious ! But there is no mass at the paiace, is there ?” 

“ No mass ; do you take us for heathens Learn, monsieur, 
that the king goes to church with his gentlemen and the 
queen hears mass in her private chapel” 

“ The queen ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Queen Marguerite ?” 

“Yes; and I, unworthy as I am, received two crowns for 
officiating there ; I even preached a very good sermon on the 
text, ‘God has separated the wheat from the chaff.’ It is in 
the Bible, ‘ God will separate,’ but as it is a long time since that 
was written, I supposed that the thing was done.” 

“ And the king ?” 

“ He heard it, and applauded.” 

“ I must add,” said the officer, “ that they do something 
else than hear mass at the palace ; they give good dinners, — 
and the promenades ! I do not believe in any place in France 
there are more moustaches shown than in the promenades at 
Ne'rac.” 

Chicot knew Queen Marguerite well, and he knew that if she 
was blind to these love affairs, it was when she had some motive 
for placing a bandage over her eyes. 

‘ Ventre de biche !” said he, “ these alleys of cypresses, and 


176 


THE FORTY- FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


3,000 feet of shade, make me feel uncomfortable. I am coming 
from Paris to tell the truth at Nerac, where they have such 
deep shade, that women do not see their husbands walking 
with other women. Corbiou ! they will be ready to kill me for 
troubling so many charming promenades. Happily I know the 
king is a philosopher, and I trust in that. Besides, I am an 
ambassador, and sacred.” 

Chicot entered Nerac in the evening, just at the time of the 
promenades which occupied the king so much. Chicot could 
see the simplicity of the royal manners by the ease with which 
he obtained an audience. A valet opened the door of a 
rustic-looking apartment bordered with flowers, above which 
was the king’s ante chamber and sitting-room. An officer or 
page ran to find the king, wherever he might be when any 
one wished for an audience, and he always came at the first 
invitation. Chicot was pleased with this ; he judged the 
king to be open and candid, and he thought so still more 
when he saw the king coming up a winding walk bordered 
with laurels and roses, an old hat on his head, and dressed in 
a dark green doublet and gray boots, and with a cup and ball 
in his hand. He looked gay and happy, as though care never 
came near him. 

“ Who wants me ?” said he to the page. 

“A mm who looks to me half courtier, half soldier.” 

Chicot heard these words, and advanced. 

“ It is I, sire.” 

“ What ! M. Chicot in Navarre ! Ventre St. Gris ! welcome, 
dear M. Chicot !” 

“ A thousand thanks, sire.” 

“ Quite well ? Ah, parbleu ! we will drink together, I am 
quite delighted. Chicot, sit down there.” And he pointed to 
a grass bank. 

“ Oh no, sire !” 

“ Have you come 200 leagues for me to leave you standing ? 
No, no; sit down ; one cannot talk standing.” 

“But, sire, respect ” 

“ Respect ! here in Navarre 1 You are mad, my poor 
Chicot.” 

“ No, sire, I am not mad, but I am an ambassador.” 

A slight frown contracted Henri’s brow, but disappeared at 
once. 

“ Ambassador, from whom ?” 


CHICOT BLESSES ATXG LOUIS II 17; 

“From Henri III. I come from Paris and the Louvre, 
sire.” 

“ Oh ! that is different. Come with me,” said the king, rising, 
with a sigh. 

“ Page, take wine up to my room. Come, Chicot, I will 
conduct you.” 

Chicot followed the king, thinking, “ How disagreeable ! to 
come and trouble this honest man in his peace and his ignor- 
ance. Bah ! he will be philosophical ” 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

HOW THE KING OF NAVARRE GUESSES THAT “ TURENNIUS ” 
MEANS TURENNE, AND “ MARGOTA ” MARGOT. 

The King of Navarre’s room was not very sumptuous, for he 
was not rich, and did not waste the little he had. It was large, 
and, with his bedroom, occupied all the right wing of the castle. 
It was well, though not royally furnished, and had a magnifi- 
cent view over meadows and rivers. Great trees, willows, and 
planes hid the course of the stream every here and there, 
which glanced between, golden in the sunlight, or silver by 
that of the moon. This beautiful panorama was terminated 
by a range of hills, which looked violet in the evening light. 
The windows on the other side looked on to the court of the 
castle. 

All these natural beauties interested Chicot less than the 
arrangements of the room, which was the ordinary sitting-room 
of Henri. 

The king seated himself, with his constant smile, in a great 
arm-chair of leather with gilt nails, and Chicot, at his com- 
mand, sat down on a stool similar in material, Henri looked 
at him smilingly, but with - curiosity. 

*• You will think I am very curious, dear M. Chicot,” began 
the king, “ but I cannot help it. I have so long looked on you 
as dead, that in spite of the pleasure your resurrection causes 

1 2 


173 THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN, 

me, I can hardly realise the idea. Why did you so suddenly 
disappear from this world ?’' 

“Oh, sire !” said Chicot, witn ms usual freedom, “you dis- 
appeared. from Vincennes. Everyone eclipses himself according 
to his need.” 

“ I recognise by your ready wit that it is not to your ghost 1 
am speaking/' Then, more seriously, “ But now we must 
leave wit and speak of business.” 

“ If it does not too much fatigue your majesty, I am 
ready.” 

Henri’s eyes kindled. 

“ Fatigue me ! It is true I grow rusty here. I have to day 
exercised my body much, but my mind little.” 

“ Sire, I am glad of that ; for, ambassador from a king, your 
relation and friend, I have a delicate commission to execute 
with your majesty.” 

“ Speak quickly — you pique my curiosity.” 

“ Sire * 

“ First, your letters of credit. I know it is needless, since 
you are the ambassador ; but I must do my duty as king ' 

“ Sire, I ask your majesty’s pardon , but all the letters of 
credit that I had I have drowned in rivers, or scattered in the 
air.” 

“And why so ?” 

“ Because one cannot travel charged with an embassy to Na- 
varre as if you were going to buy cloth at Lyons , and if one 
has the dangerous honour of carrying royal letters, one runs a 
risk of carrying them only to the tomb ” 

“ It is true,” said Henri, “ the roads are not very safe, and 
in Navarre we are reduced, for want of money, to trust to the 
honesty of the people ; but they do not steal much.” 

“ Oh, no, sire ; they behave like lambs or angels, but that is 
only in Navarre ; out of it one meets wolves and vultures 
around every prey. I was a prey, sire ; so I had both.” 

“ At all events, I am glad to see they did not eat you.” 

“ Ventre de biche ! sire, it was not their faults ; they did their 
best, but they found me too tough, and could not get through* 
my skin. But to return to my letter.” 

“ Since you have none, dear M. Chicot, it seems to me use- 
less to return to .it.” 

“ But I had one, sire, but I was forced to destroy it, for M. 
de Mayenne ran after me to steal it from me.” 


THE KING OF A' A VARRE GUESSES. 


179 


“ Mayenne ?*’ 

“ In person." 

“ Luckily he does not run fast. Is he still getting fatter ?’* 

“Ventre de biche ! not just now, I should think/ 

“ Why not." 

“ Because, you understand, sire, he had the misfortune to 
catch me, and unfortunately got a sword wound." 

“ And the letter ?” 

“ He had not a glimpse of it, thanks to my precautions." 

“ Bravo ! your journey is interesting ; you must tell me the 
details But one thing disquiets me — if the letter was de- 
stroyed for M. de Mayenne, it is also destroyed for me. How, 
then, shall I know what my brother Henri wrote." 

“ Sire, it exists in my memory.” 

“ How so ?” 

“ Sire, before destroying it I learnt it by heart." 

“ An excellent idea, M. Chicot. You will recite it to me, 
will you not ?” 

“Willingly, sire.” 

“ Word for word.” 

“ Yes, sire, although I do not know the language, I have a 
good memory.” 

“ What language ?” 

“ Latin.” 

“ I do not understand you ; was my brother Henri’s letter 
written in Latin ?” 

“Yes, sire.” 

“And why?" 

“ Ah ! sire, doubtless because Latin is an audacious lan- 
guage — a language which may say anything, and in which 
Persius and Juvenal have immortalised the follies and errors of 
kings.” 

“ Kings ?” 

“And of queens, sire.” 

The king began to frown. 

“ I mean emj e -ors and empresses,” continued Chicot. 

“ You know Latin, M. Chicot ?” 

“ Yes and no, sire." 

“ You are lucky if it is ‘ yes,’ for you have an immense 
advantage over me, who do not know it, but you ” 

“They taught me to read it, sire, as well as Greek and 
Hebrew.” 

12 — 2 


1 80 THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 

“ You are a living book, M. Chicot.” 

“Your majesty has found the exact word — ‘a book.’ They 
print something on my memory, they send me where they like, 
1 arrive, I am read and understood.” 

“ Or not understood.” 

“ How so, sire ?” 

“ Why, if one does not know the language in which you are 
printed.” 

“Oh, sire, kings know everything.” 

“That is what we tell the people, and what flatterers tell 
us.” 

“ Then, sire, it is useless for me to recite to your majesty the 
letter which I learned by heart, since neither of us would under- 
stand it.” 

“Is Latin not very much like Italian ?” 

“ So they say, sire.” 

“ And Spanish ?” 

“ I believe so.” 

“ Then let us try. I know a little Italian, and my Gascon 
patois is something like Spanish : perhaps I may understand 
Latin without ever having learned it. ’ 

“ Your majesty orders me to repeat it, then ?’ 

“ I beg you, dear M. Chicot.” 

Chicot began. 

“ Frater carissime, 

“ Sincerus amo quo te prosequebatur germanus noster Carolus 
Nonus, functus nuper, colet usque regiam nostram et pectori 
meo pertinaciter adhoeret.” 

“ If I am not mistaken,” said Henri, interrupting, “ they 
speak in this phrase of love, obstinacy, and of my brother, 
Charles IX.” 

“Very likely,” said Chicot ; “ Latin is such a beautiful lan- 
guage, that all that might go in one sentence.” 

“ Go on,” said the king. 

Chicot began again, and Henri listened with the utmost calm 
to all the passages about Turenne and his wife, only at the 
word “ Turennius,” he said, 

“ Does not ‘Turennius’ mean Turenne ?” 

“ I think so, sire.” 

“ And ‘ Margota’ must be the pet name which my brothers 
gave to their sister Marguerite, my beloved wife,” 


THE KING OF NAVARRE GUESSES. 1S1 

“ It is possible,” said Chicot ; and he continued his letter to 
the end without the king’s face changing in the least. 

“ Is it finished ?” asked Henri, when he stopped. 

“Yes, sire.” 

“ It ought to be superb/ 

“ I think so, also, sire.” 

“ How unlucky that I only understood two words, ‘Turen- 
nius’ and ‘ Margota.’ ” 

“ An irreparable misfortune, sire, unless your majesty 
decides on having it translated by some one.” 

“ Oh ! no ; you yourself. M. Chicot, who were so discreet in 
destroying the autograph, vou would not counsel me to make 
this letter public ?” 

“ But I think that the kings letter to you, recommended to 
me so carefully, and sent to your majesty by a private hand, 
must contain something important for your majesty to know.” 

“ Yes, but to confide these important things to any one, I 
must have great confidence in him.” 

“ Certainly.” 

“Well, I have an idea. Go and find my wife. She is 
learned, and will understand it if you recite it to her ; then she 
can explain it to me.” 

“ That is an excellent plan.” 

“Is it not? Go.” 

“ I will, sire.” 

“ Mind not to alter a word of the letter.” 

“ That would be impossible, sire. To do that I must know 
Latin.” 

“ Go, then, my friend.” 

Chicot took leave and went, more puzzled with the king than 
ever. 


182 


THE FORTY -FIVE GUARDSMEN, 


CHAPTER XLV. 

THE AVENUE THREE THOUSAND FEET LONG. 

The queen inhabited the other wing of the castle. The famous 
avenue began at her very window, and her eyes rested only on 
grass and flowers. A native poet (Marguerite, in the provinces 
as in Paris, was always the star of the poets) had composed a 
sonnet about her. 

“ She wishes,” said he, “ by all these agreeable sights to chase 
away painful souvenirs.” 

Daughter, sister, and wife of a king as she was, she had in- 
deed suffered much. Her philosophy, although more boasted 
of than that of the king, was less solid ; for it was due only to 
study, while his was natural. Therefore, stoical as she tried to 
be, time and grief had already begun to leave their matks on 
her countenance. Still she was remarkably beautiful With 
her joyous yet sweet smile, her brilliant and yet soft eyes, Mar- 
guerite was still an adorable creature. She was idolised at 
Nerac, where she brought elegance, joy, and life. She, a Parisian 
princess, supported patiently a provincial life, and this alone 
was a virtue in the eyes of the inhabitants. Every one loved 
her, both as queen and as woman. 

Full of hatred for her enemies, but patient that she might 
avenge herself better — feeling instinctively that under the mask 
of carelessness and long-suffering worn by Henri of Navarre he 
had a bad feeling towards her — she had accustomed herself to 
replace by poetry, and by the semblance of love, relations, hus- 
bands, and friends. 

No one, excepting Catherine de Medicis, Chicot, or some 
melancholy ghosts returned from the realms of death, could 
have told why Marguerite's cheeks were often so pale, why her 
eyes often filled with tears, or why her heart often betrayed its 
melancholy void. Marguerite had no more confidantes ; she 
had been betrayed too often. 

However, the bad feeling which she believed Henri to have 
for her was only an instinct, and came rather from the con- 


THE AVENUE THREE THOUSAND FEET LONG. 183 

sciousness of her own faults than from his behaviour. H2 
treated her like a daughter of France, always spoke to her with 
respectful politeness, or grateful kindness, and was always the 
husband and friend. 

When Chicot arrived at the place indicated to him by Henri, 
he found no one , Marguerite, they said, was at the end of the 
famous avenue. When he had gone about two-thirds down it, 
he saw at the end, in an arbour covered with jasmine, clematis, 
and broom, a group covered with ribands, feathers, velvets, and 
swords Perhaps all this finery was slightly old-fashioned, but 
for Nerac it was brilliant, and even Chicot, coming straight 
from Paris, was satisfied with the coup d’ceil. A page preceded 
Chicot. 

“ What do you want, D'Aubiac ?” asked the queen, when she 
saw him. 

“ Madame, a gentleman from Paris, an envoy from the Louvre 
to the King of Navarre, and sent by his majesty to you, desires 
to speak to your majesty. * 

A sudden flush passed over Marguerite s face, and she turned 
quickly Chicot was standing near; Marguerite quitted the 
circle, and, waving an adieu to the company, advanced towards 
the Gascon. 

“ M. Chicot !” cried she, in astonishment. 

“ Here I am,*at ycur majesty’s feet,” said he, “and find you 
ever good and beautiful, and queen here, as at the Louvre.” 

“It is a miracle to see you here, monsieur; they said you 
were dead.” 

“ I pretended to be so.” 

“And what do you want with us, M. Chicot ? Am I happy 
enough to be still remembered in France ?” 

“Oh, madame,”said Chicot, smiling, “w r e do not forgot queens 
of your age and your beauty. The King of France even w’rites 
on this subject to the King of Navarre.” 

Marguerite coloured. “ He w r rites ?” 

“ Yes, madame.” 

“ And you have brought the letter ?” 

“ I have not brought it, madame, for reasons that the King 
of Navarre will explain to you, but learned it by heart and re- 
peated it.” 

“ I understand. This letter was important, and you feared 
to lose it, or have it stolen.” 


184 THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 

“ That is the truth, madame ; but the letter was written in 
Latin.” 

“ Oh, very well ; you know I know Latin.” 

“ And the King of Navarre, does he know it ?” 

“ Dear M. Chicot, it is very difficult to find out what he does 
or does not know. If one can believe appearances, he knows 
very little of it, for he never seems to understand when I speak 
to any one in that language. Then you told him the purport 
of the letter ?” 

“ It was to him it was addressed.” 

“ And did he seem to understand ?” 

“Only two words.” 

“ What were they ?” 

“ Turennius et Margota.” 

u Turennius et Margota ?” 

“ Yes ; those two words were in the letter.” 

“ Then what did he do ?” 

“ He sent me to you, madame.” 

“ To me ?” 

“ Yes, saying that the letter contained things of too much im- 
portance to be confided to a stranger, and that it was better to 
take it to you, who were the most beautiful of learned ladies, 
and the most learned of beautiful ones.” • 

“I will listen to you, M. Chicot, since subh are the king’s 
orders.” 

“ Thank you, madame ; where would you please it to be ?” 

“Come to my room.” 

Marguerite looked earnestly at Chicot, who, through pity for 
her, had let her have a glimpse of the truth. Perhaps she felt 
the need of a support, for she turned towards a gentleman in 
the group, and said : 

“ M. de Turenne, your arm to the castle. Precede us, M. 
Chicot.” 


MARGUERITE'S ROOM 


335 


CHAPTER XLVI. 
marguerite’s room 

Marguerite’s room was fashionably furnished ; and tapestries, 
enamels, china, books and manuscripts in Greek, Latin, and 
French covered all the tables ; while birds in their cages, dogs 
on the carpet, formed a living world round Marguerite. 

The queen was a woman to understand Epicurus, not in 
Greek only, but she occupied her life so well that from a thou- 
sand griefs she drew forth a pleasure. 

Chicot was invited to sit down in a beautiful arm-chair of 
tapestry, representing a Cupid scattering a cloud of flowers ; 
and a page, handsome and richly dressed, offered to him re- 
freshment. He did not accept it, but as soon as the Vicomte 
de Turenne had left them, began to recite his letter. We already 
know this letter, having read it in French with Chicot, and there- 
fore think it useless to follow the Latin translation. Chicot 
spoke with the worst accent possible, but Marguerite understood 
it perfectly, and could not hide her rage and indignation. She 
knew her brother’s dislike to her, and her mind was divided be- 
tween anger and fear. But as he concluded, she decided on 
her part. 

“ By the Holy Communion,” said she, when Chicot had 
finished, “ my brother writes well in Latin ! What vehemerce ! 
what style ! I should never have believed him capable of it. 
But do you not understand it, M. Chicot ? I thought you were 
a good Latin scholar.” 

“ Madame, I have forgotten it ; all that I remember is that 
Latin has no article, that it has a vocative, and that the head 
belongs to the neuter gender.” 

“ Really !” said some one, entering noiselessly and merrily. 
It was the King of Navarre. “The head is of the neuter gender, 
M. Chicot ? Why is it not masculine ?” 

“Ah, sire, I do not know; it astonishes me as much as it 
does your majesty.” 

“ It must be because it is sometimes the man, sometimes the 
woman that rules, according to their temperaments.” 


1 86 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


“That is an excellent reason, sire.” 

“ I am glad to be a more profound philosopner than I 
thought — but to return to the letter. Madame, I burn to hear 
news from the court of France, and M. Chicot brings them to 
me in an unknown tongue.” 

“ Do you not fear, sire, that the Latin is a bad prognostic ?” 
said Chicot. 

“ M. Chicot is right, sire,” said the queen. 

“ What !” said Henri, “ does the letter contain anything dis- 
agreeable, and from your brother, who is so clever and polite ?” 

“ Even when he had me insulted in my litter, as happened 
near Sens, when I left Paris to rejoin you, sire.” 

“ When one has a brother whose own conduct is irreproach- 
able,” said Henri, in an indefinable tone between jest and 
earnest, “ a brother a king, and very punctilious ” 

“ He ought to care for the true honour of his sister and of 
his house. I do not suppose, sire, that if your sister, Catherine 
d’Albret, occasioned some scandal, you would have it published 
by a captain of the guards.” 

“ Oh ! I am like a good-natured bourgeois, and not a king ; 
but the letter, the letter ; since it was addressed to m®, I wish 
to know what it contains.” 

“It is a perfidious letter, sire.” 

“ Bah !” 

“ Oh ! yes, and which contains more calumnies than are 
necessary to embroil a husband with his wife, and a friend with 
his friends.” 

“ Oh ! oh ! embroil a husband with his wife ; you and me 
then ?” 

“Yes, sire.” 

Chicot was on thorns ; he worna have given much, hungry 
as he was, to be in bed without supper. 

“ The storm is about to burst,” thought he. 

“Sire,” said Marguerite, “I much regret that your majesty 
has forgotten your Latin.” 

“ Madame, of all the Latin I learned, I remember but one 
phrase — ‘ Deus et virtus ceterna,’ — a singular assemblage of 
masculine, feminine, and neuter.” 

“ Because, sire, if you did understand, you would see in the 
letter many compliments to me.” 

“ But how could compliments embroil us, madame ? For 
as long as your brother pays you compliments, I shall agree 


MARGUERITE'S ROOM. 187 

with him ; if he speaks ill of you, I shall understand his 
policy.” 

“Ah ! if he spoke ill of me, you would understand it?” 

“ Yes j he has reasons for embroiling us, which I know 
well.” 

“ Well then, sire, these compliments are only an insinuating 
prelude to calumnious accusations against your friends and 
mine.” 

“ Come, ma mie, you have understood badly ; let me hear if 
all this be in the letter.” 

Marguerite looked defiant. 

“ Do you want your followers or not, sire ?” said she. 

“ Do I want them ? what a question ! What should I do 
without them, and reduced to my own resources ?” 

“ Well, sire, the king wishes to detach your best servants from 
you.” 

“ I defy him.” 

“ Bravo, sire !” said Chicot. 

“Yes,” said Henri, with that apparent candour with which to 
the end of his life he deceived people, “ for my followers are 
attached to me through love, and not through interest ; I have 
nothing to give them.” 

“ You give them all your heart and your faith, sire ; it is the 
best return a king can make his friends.” 

“ Yes, ma mie, I shall not fail to do so till I find that they 
do not merit it.” 

“Well, sire, they wish to make you believe that they do 
not.” 

“ Ah ! but how ?” 

“ I cannot tell you, sire, without compromising ” and she 

glanced at Chicot. 

“ Dear M. Chicot,” said Henri, “ pray wait for me in my 
room, the queen has something particular to say to me.” 


iSS 


THE FORTY FIVE GUARDSMEN, 


CHAPTER XLVIL 

THE EXPLANATION. 

To get rid of a witness whom Marguerite believed to know 
more of Latin than he allowed, was already a triumph, or at 
least a pledge of security for her ; for alone with her husband 
she could give whatever translation of the Latin that she 
pleased. 

Henri and his wife were then left tete k-tete. He had on 
his face no appearance of disquietude or menace ; decidedly 
he could not understand Latin. 

“ Monsieur,” said Marguerite, “ I wait for you to interrogate 
„ - »> 
me. 

“ This letter preoccupies you much, ma mie ; do not alarm 
yourself thus.” 

“ Sire, because a king does not send a special messenger to 
another without some reason that he believes important.” 

“ Well, ma mie, let us leave it for the present ; have you not 
something like a bail this evening ?” 

“ Yes, sire,” said Marguerite, astonished, “ but that is not ex- 
traordinary ; you know we dance nearly every evening.” 

“ I have a great chase for to-morrow.” 

“ Each our pleasure, sire ; you love the chase, I the 
dance.” 

“ Yes, ma mie, and there is no harm in that,” said Henri, 
sighing. 

“ Certainly not ; but your majesty sighed as you said it.” 

“ Listen to me, madame \ I am uneasy.” 

" About what, sire ?” 

“ About a current report.” 

“ A report ; your majesty uneasy about a report ?” 

“ What more simple ; when this report may annoy you.” 

“ Me ?” 

“ Yes, you.” 

“ Sire, I do not understand you.” 

“ Have you heard nothing ?” 

Marguerite began to tremble. “I am the least curious 


THE EXPLANATION. 


189 


woman in the world,” said she, “ I hear nothing but what is 
cried in my very ears. Besides, I think so little of reports, 
that I should not listen to them if I heard them.” 

“ It is then your opinion, madame, that one should despise 
reports ?” 

“Absolutely, sire ; particularly kings and queens.” 

“ Why so, madame ?” 

“ Because, as every one talks of us, we should nave enough 
co do to listen to them all.” 

“ Well, I believe you are right, ma mie, and I am about to 
furnish you with an excellent opportunity of exercising your 
philosophy.” 

Marguerite believed that the decisive moment had come, and 
rallied all her courage. 

“ So be it, sire,” said she. 

Henri began in the tone of a penitent who has some great 
sin to acknowledge. 

“ You know the great interest I take in Fosseuse ?” 

“Ah !” cried Marguerite triumphantly, seeing he was not 
about to accuse her ; “ yes, yes ; the little Fosseuse, your 
friend.” 

“ Yes, madame.” 

“ My lady in waiting.” 

“Yes.” 

“Your passion — your love.” 

“ Ah ! you speak now just like one of the reports you were 
abusing just now.” 

“ It is true, sire, and I ask your pardon,” said Marguerite, 
smiling. 

“ Ma mie, you are right, public report often lies, and we sove- 
reigns have great reason to establish this theory;” and he 
laughed ironically. 

“ Well ; and Fosseuse ?” said Marguerite. 

“ She is ill, ma mie, and the doctors do not understand het 
malady.” 

“ That is strange, sire. Fosseuse, who you say is a pearl 
of purity, ought to allow the doctors to penetrate into the 
secret of her illness.” 

“ Alas ! it is not so.” 

“ What !” cried the queen ; “ is she not a pearl of purity ?” 

“ I mean that she persists in hiding the cause of her illness 
from the doctors.” 


190 THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN". 

“ But, to you, sire, her confidant, her father.” 

“ I know nothing, or at least wish to know nothing.” 

“ Then, sire,” said Marguerite, who now believed that she 
had to confer instead of asking a pardon ; “ then, sire, I do not 
know what you want; and wait for you- to explain.” 

“ Well, then, ma mie, I will tell you. I wish vou — but it is 
asking a great deal.” 

“ Speak on, sire.” 

“To have the goodness to go to Fosseuse.” 

“ I go to visit this girl whom every one says nas the honour 
of being your mistress ; a thing which you do not deny.” 

“ Gently, gently, ma mie. On my word you will make a 
scandal with your exclamations ; and really I believe that 
will rejoice the court of France, for in the letter from my 
brother-in-law that Chicot repeated to me, there was these 
words, ‘Quotidie scandalum,’ which must mean, ‘daily scandal.’ 
It is not necessary to know Latin to understand that : it is 
almost French.” 

“ But, sire, to whom did these words apply ?” 

“Ah ! that is what I want to know, but you, who know Latin, 
can hdp me to find out.” 

Marguerite coloured up to her ears. 

“ Well, monsieur,” said she, “ you wish me to take a nu- 
miliating step for the sake of peace and therefore I will 
comply.” 

“ Thanks, ma mie, thanks.” 

“ But what is the object of this visit?” 

“ It is very simple, madame.” 

“ Still, you must tell me, for I am not clever enougn to guess 
it.” 

“Well ! you will find Fosseuse among the ladies of honour, 
sleeping in their room ; and they, you know, are so curious and 
indiscreet that one cannot tell to what extremity Fosseuse mav 
be reduced.” 

“ But then she fears something,” cried Marguerite, with a 
burst of anger and hatred ; “ she wishes to hide herself.” 

“ I do not know ; all I do know is, that she wishes to quit 
the room of the maids of honour.” 

“ If she wishes to hide, let her not count on me. I may shut 
my eyes to certain things, but I will never be an accomplice,” 
said Marguerite. 

Henri seemed not to have heard, but he stood for a minute 


7 HE EX PLAN A WON. 


jgi 


in a thoughtful attitude, and then said, “ Margota cum Tu- 
rennio. Ah ! those were the names, madame — ‘ Margota cum 
Turennio.’ ” 

Marguerite grew crimson. 

“ Calumnies, sire !” cried she. 

“ What calumnies ?” replied he, with the most natural air 
possible. “ Do you find any calumny in it ! It is a passage 
from my brother’s letter — ‘ Margota cum Turennio conveniunt 
in castello nomine Loignac !’ Decidedly I must get this letter 
translated.” 

“ Leave this comedy, sire,” said Marguerite, tremblingly, “and 
tell me at once what you want from me.” 

“ W ell, I wish, ma mie, that you should separate Fosseuse ; 
from the other girls, and send her a discreet doctor ; your own, 
for example.” 

“ Ah ! I see what it is,” cried the queen, “ Fosseuse, the 
paragon, is near her accouchement.” 

“ I do not say so, ma mie ; it is you who affirm it.” 

“ It is so, monsieur ; your insinuating tone, your false humi- 
lity, prove it to me. But there are sacrifices that no man 
should ask of his wife. Take care of Fosseuse yourself, sire ; 
it is your business, and let the trouble fall on the guilty, not on 
the innocent.” 

“ The guilty ! Ah ! that makes me think of the letter again.” 

“ How so ?” 

“ Guilty is ‘ nocens,’ is it not ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Well, there was that word in the letter — 1 Margota cum 
Turennio, ambo nocentes, conveniunt in castello nomine Loignac.’ 
Mon Dieu ! how I regret that my knowledge is not as great as 
my memory is good.” 

“Ambo nocentes,” repeated Marguerite, in alow voice, and 
turning very pale, “ he understood it all.” 

“ Margota cum Turennio, ambo nocentes,” repeated Henri. 
“ What the devil could my brother mean by ‘ ambo !’ Ventre 
St. Gris, ma mie, it is astonishing that you who know Latin 
so well have not yet explained it to me. Ah ! pardieu ! there 
is ‘Turennius’ walking under your windows, and looking up as 
if he expected you. I will call to him to come up ; he is very 
learned, and he will explain it to me.” 

‘ Sire, sire, be superior to all the calumniators of France.” 

“ Oh ! ma mie, it seems to me that people are not more 


192 


THE FORTY- FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


indulgent in Navarre than in France ; you yourself were very 
severe about poor Fosseuse just now.” 

“ I severe ?” 

“ Yes ; and yet we ought to be indulgent here, we lead such 
a happy life, you with your balls, and I with my chase.” 

“ Yes, yes, sire; you are right; let us be indulgent” 

“ Oh ! I was sure of your heart, ma mie.” 

“You know me well, sire.” 

“ Yes. Then you will go and see Fosseuse ?” 

“ Yes, sire.” 

“ And separate her from the others ?” 

“ Yes, sire.” 

“And send her your doctor ?” 

“ Yes, sire.” 

“ And if, unluckily, what you say were true, ana she had 
been weak, for women are frail ” 

“Well, sire, I am a woman, and know the indulgence due to 
my sex.” 

“ Ah ! you know all things, ma mie ; you are in truth a 
model of perfection, and I kiss your hands.” 

“ But believe, sire, that it is for the love of you alone that I 
make this sacrifice.” 

“ Oh ! yes, ma mie, I know you well, madame, and my brother 
of France also, he who speaks so well of you in this letter, and 
adds, ‘ Fiat sanum exemplum statim, atque res certior evenietd 
Doubtless, ma mie, it is you who give this good example.” 

And Henri kissed the cold hand of Marguerite. Then, turn- 
ing on the threshold of the door, he said : 

“ Say everything kind from me to Fosseuse, and do for her 
as you have promised me. I set off for the chase ; perhaps I 
shall not see you till my return, perhaps never — these wolves 
are wicked beasts. Come, and let me embrace you, mi mie.” 

Then he embraced Marguerite, almost affectionately, and 
went out, leaving her stupefied with all she had heard. 


THE SPANISH AMBASSADOR. 


193 


CHAPTER XLVIII. 

THE SPANISH AMBASSADOR. 

The king rejoined Chi.^t, who was still agitated with ferrs as 
to the explanation. “ Well, Chicot,” said Henri, ‘ do you knovv 
what the queen says ?” 

“ No.” 

“ She pretends that your cursed Latin will disturb our 
peace.” 

“ Oh ! sire, forget it, and all will be at an end. It is not 
with a piece of spoken Latin as though it were written ; the 
wind carries away the one, fire cannot sometimes destroy the 
other.” 

“Ill think of it no more.” 

‘‘That is right.” 

“ I have something else to do.” 

“Your majesty prefers amusing yourself.” 

“ Oh ! mon cher, here we do everything openly ; love, war, 
and politics.” 

“ The first more than the two last ; do you not, sire ?” 

“ Ma foi ! yes ; I confess it, my dear friend. This country 
is so fine, and its women so beautiful.” 

“ Oh ! sire, you forget the queen ; can the Navarrese women 
be more pleasing and beautiful than she is? If they are, I 
compliment them.” 

“ Ventre St. Gris, you are right, Chicot ; and I, who forgot 
that you are an ambassador, and represent King Henri III., 
and that he is the brother of Marguerite, and that consequently, 
before you, I ought to place her before every one — but 
you must excuse my imprudence, I am not accustomed to am- 
bassadors.” 

At this moment the door of the room opened, and D’Aubiac 
announced, “The ambassador from Spain.” 

Chicot gave a start which made the king smile. 

“ Ma foi!” said Henri, “that is a contradiction that I ditf 
not expect. And what the devil can he want here ?’ 

“ Yes,” said Chicot, “ what the devil does he want here ?” 

13 


194 THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. \ 

“ We shall soon know ; perhaps our Spanish neighbour has 
some frontier dispute to settle with us/’ 

“ I will retire,” said Chicot. “ This is doubtless a real am- 
bassador from his majesty Philippe II., whilst I ” 

“Open that library door, Chicot, and go in there.” 

“ But from there I shall hear all, in spite of myself.’ 

“Oh! never mind; I have nothing to hide. Apropos; 
have you nothing more to say to me from your king ?” 

“ Nothing at all, sire.” 

“ Very well, then, you have nothing to do but to see and hear, 
like all other ambassadors, and the library will do excellently 
for that purpose. Look with all your eyes, and listen with all 
your ears, my dear Chicot. D’Aubiac, let the ambassador 
enter.” 

Chicot hastened to his place of concealment, and drew the 
tapestry close. 

When the first preliminaries of etiquette were over, the 
ambassador said : 

“ Can I speak freely to your majesty ?” 

“You may, monsieur.” 

“ Sire, I bring the answer from his Catholic majesty.” 

“ An answer,” thought Chicot ; “ then there was a ques- 
tion.” 

“ An answer to what ?” said Henri. 

“To your proposals of last month.” 

“ Ma foi ! I am very forgetful ! please to recall to me what 
they were.” 

“About the invasions of the Lorraine princes ?” 

“ Yes, I remember, particularly those of M. de Guise ; go on, 
monsieur?” 

“ Sire, the king, my master, although much begged to sign a 
treaty of alliance with Lorraine, prefers one with Navarre. I 
know my master’s intentions with regard to you.” 

“ May I also know them ?” 

“ Sire, my master will refuse nothing to Navarre.” 

Chicot bit his fingers to convince himself that he was not 
dreaming. 

“ What can I ask then ?” said Henri. 

“Whatever your majesty pleases.” 

“ Diable !” 

“ If your majesty will speak openly and frankly ?” 

“Ventre St. Gris, it is embarrassing.” 


THE SPANISH A MBA SS A DOR. 


195 


“ Shall I tell you his majesty the King of Spain’s pro- 
posal ?” 

“ I listen.” 

“The King of France treats the Queen of Navarre as an 
enemy, he repudiates her as a sister, and covers her with oppro- 
brium. All this, but I beg your majesty’s pardon for touching 
on so delicate a subject ” 

“ Go on ” 

“ All this, then, is public.” 

“ Well ! monsieur, and what of all this ?” 

“ It is consequently easy for your majesty to repudiate as 
a wife her whom her brother disclaims as a sister. This 
once done, the alliance between the King of Navarre and the 
King of Spain is concluded, and the King of Spain will give 
the infanta, his daughter, to your majesty, and he himself 
will marry Madame Catheiine de Navarre, your majesty’s 
sister.” 

A movement of pride shook Henri, while Chicot shuddered 
with terror. The one saw his star rising, radiant like the morn- 
ing sun , the other saw the sceptre of the Valois ready to 
decline and fall. 

For an instant there was profound silence, and then Henri 
said : 

“The proposal, monsieur, is magnificent, and crowns me 
with honour.” 

“ His majesty,” said the negotiator, who already calculated 
on an enthusiastic acceptance, “ proposes only one , condi 
tion.” 

“ Ah ! a condition ! that is but just ; let me hear it.” 

“ In aiding your majesty against the Lorraine princes, that is 
to say, in opening to your majesty a way to the throne, my 
master desires to facilitate by your alliance the safety of Flan- 
ders, which the Due d’Anjou is already attacking ; your majesty 
will understand that it is pure preference on my master’s part 
for you over the Lorraine princes, since MM. de Guise, his 
natural allies, as Catholic princes, make of themselves a party 
against the Due d’ Anjou in Flanders. Now, this is the only 
condition, which you must think reasonable. His majesty 
the King of Spain, allied to you by a double marriage, will 

help you to ” the ambassador seemed to seek for the 

right word, “ to succeed to the King of France, and you will 
guarantee Flande>*s to him. I may then, now, knowing you,? 

IT— 2 


196 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDS ME N. 


majesty’s wisdom, regard the negotiation as happily termi- 
nated.” 

Henri took two or three turns up and down the room. 

“ This, then,” said he at last, “is the answer vou were charged 
to bring me ?” 

“ Yes, sire.” 

“ Nothing else?” 

“ Nothing else, sire.” 

“ Well ! I refuse the offer of the King of Spain.” 

“ You refuse the hand of the infanta !” cried the Spaniard* 
with a start, as though he had received a sudden wound. 

“ It would be a great honour, but I cannot think it a greater 
one than that of having married a daughter of France.” 

“ No ; but that alliance brought you nearly to the tomb, and 
this will bring you to the throne.” 

“ An incomparable piece of good fortune, monsieur, I know ; 
but I will never buy it with the blood and honour of my future 
subjects. What ! monsieur. I draw the sword against the 
King of France, my brother-in-law, for the Spaniards ; I arrest 
the standard of France in its career of glory ; I kill brothers 
by brothers’ hands ; I bring the stranger into my country ! No, 
monsieur; I asked the King of Spain for aid against the Guises, 
who wish to rob me of my inheritance, but not against the Due 
d’Anjou, my brother-in-law ; not against Henri III., my friend ; 
not against my wife, sister of my king. You will aid the 
Guises, you will say, and lend them your support. Do so, and 
I will let loose on you and on them all the Protestants of 
Germany and France. The King of Spain wishes to reconquer 
Flanders, which is slipping from him ; let him do what his 
father, Charles V. did, and ask a free passage to go and claim 
his title of first bourgeois of Ghent, and Henri III., I am 
certain, will grant it to him, as Francis I. did. I wish for the 
throne of France, says his Catholic majesty ; it is possible, but 
I do not need him to aid me in getting it ; I will do that for 
myself, once it is vacant, in spite of all the kings in the world. 
Adieu, then, monsieur. Tell my brother Philippe that I am 
grateful for his offers, but cannot believe for a moment that he 
thought me capable of accepting them. Adieu, monsieur.” 

“ Take care, sire,” said the ambassador ; “ the good under- 
standing between two neighbours may be destroyed by a hasty 
word.” 

“ Monsieur, my crown is. so light, that I should scarcely feel 


THE SPANISH AMBASSADOR. i :7 

the difference if it slipped off ; besides, I believe I can guard 
it. Therefore, once more adieu, monsieur, and tell the king 
your master that I have greater ambitions than he dreams of. ;; 
And the Bearnais, becoming once more, not himself, but \\ hat 
he generally seemed to be, conducted the ambassador, with a 
courteous smile, to the door. 


CHAPTER XLIX. 

THE POOR OF HENRI OF NAVARRE. 

Chicot remained plunged in profound surprise. Henri lifted 
the tapestry, and, striking him on the shoulder, said, — 

“Well, M. Chicot, how do you think I managed ?” 

“ Wonderfully, sire ; and really, for a king who is not accus- 
tomed to ambassadors ” 

“ It is my brother Henri who sends me such ambassadors.” 

“ How so, sire ?” 

“If he did not incessantly persecute his poor sister, others 
would not dream of it. Do you believe that if the King of Spain 
had not heard of the public insult offered to the queen, when a 
captain of the guards searched her litter, that he woidd have 
proposed to me to repudiate her ?” 

“ I see with pleasure, sire,” replied Chicot, “ that all attempts 
will be useless, and that nothing can interrupt the harmony that 
exists between the queen and yourself.” 

“ Oh, my friend, the interest they have in making us quarrel 
is too clear.” 

“ I confess to you, sire, that I am not so penetrating as 
you are.” 

“ Doubtless Henri would be delighted if I repudiated his 
sister.” 

“ How so ? Pray explain to me.” 

“ You know they forgot to pay me my wife’s dowry.” 

“ I guessed as much, sire ” 


198 THE FORTY- FIVE GUARDSMEN . 

“ This dowry was to consist of 300,000 golden crowns and 
some towns ; among others, Cahors.” 

“ A pretty town, mordieu !” 

“ I have claimed, not the money, but Cahors.” 

“ Ventre de biche ! sire, in your place, I should have done 
the same.” 

“ And that is why — do you understand now ?” 

“ No, indeed, sire.” 

“ Why they wish me to quarrel with my wife and repudiate 
her. No wife, no dowry, no more 300,000 crowns, no Cahors. 
It is one way of eluding a promise, and Henri is clever in laying 
snares.” 

“ You would much like to hold Cahors, sire ?” 

“ Doubtless ; for- after all, what is my principality of Be'arn ? 
A poor little place, clipped by the avarice of my mother-in-law 
and brother-in-law.” 

“ While Cahors ” 

“Cahors would be my rampart, the safeguard of my re- 
ligion.” 

“ Well, sire, go into mourning for Cahors ; for, whether you 
break with Madame Marguerite or not, the King of France will 
never give it to you, and unless you take it ” 

“ Oh, I would soon take it, if it was not so strong, ana, above 
all, if I did not hate war ” 

“ Cahors is impregnable, sire.” 

“ Oh ! impregnable ! But if I had an army, which I have 
not ” 

“ Listen, sire. We are not here to flatter each other. To 
take Cahors, which is held by M. de Vesin, one must be a 
Hannibal or a Caesar ; and your majesty ” 

“Well?” said Henri, with a smile. 

“ Has just said, you do not like war.” 

Henri sighed, and his eyes flashed for a minute; then he 
sail : 

“ It is true I have never drawn the sword, and perhaps never 
shall. I am a king of straw, a man of peace ; but, by a singular 
contrast, I love to think of warlike things — that is in my blood. 
St. Louis, my ancestor, pious by education and gentle by nature, 
became on occasion a brave soldier and a skilful swordsman. 
Let us talk, if you please, of M. Vesin, who is a Caesar and a 
Hannibal.” 

“Sire, pardon me if I have wounded or annoyed you. I 


THE POOR OF HENRI OF NAVARRE. igg 

spoke only of M. de Vesin to extinguish all hope in your heart. 
Cahors, you see, is so well guarded because it is the key of the 
south.’' 

“ Alas ! I know it well. I wished so much to possess Cahors, 
that I told my poor mother to make it a sine qua non of cur 
marriage. See, I am speaking Latin now. Cahors, then, was 
my wife’s dowry ; they owe it to me ” 

“ Sire, to owe and pay ” 

“ Are two different things, I know. So your opinion is, that 
they will never pay me ?” 

“ I fear not,” 

“ Diable !” 

“ And, frankly 

“Well?” 

“ They will be right, sire.” 

“ Why so ?” 

“ Because you did riot know your part of king ; you should 
have got it at once.” 

“ Do you not, then, remember the tocsin of St. Germain 
l’Auxerrois ?” said Henri, bitterly. “ It seems to me that a 
husband whom they try to murder on the night of his marriage 
might think less of his dowry than of his life.” 

“ Yes ; but since then, sire, we have had peace ; and excuse 
me, sire, you should have profited by it, and, instead of making 
love, have negotiated. It is less amusing, I know, but more 
profitable. I speak, sire, as much for my king as for you. If 
Henri of France had a strong ally in Henri of Navarre, he 
would be stronger than any one ; and if the Protestants and 
Catholics of France and Navarre would unite in a common 
political interest, they would make the rest of the world 
tremble.” 

“ Oh, I do not pretend to make others tremble, so long as I 
do not tremble myself. But if I cannot get Cahors, then, and 
you think I cannot ” 

“1 think so, sire, for three reasons.” 

“ Tell them to me, Chicot.” 

“ Willingly. The first is that Cahors is a town of good pro- 
duce, which Henri III. will like to keep for himself.” 

“ That is not very honest.” 

“ It is very royal, sire.” 

“ Ah ! it is royal to take what you like.” 


200 


THE FORTY- FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


“ Yes ; that is called taking the lion’s share, and the lion is 
the king of animals.” 

“ I shall remember your lesson, Chicot. Now, your second 
reason.” 

“ Madame Catherine ” 

“ Oh ! does my good mother still mix in politics ?” 

“ Always : and she would rather see her daughter at Paris 
than at Nerac — near her than near you.” 

“ You think so ? Yet she does not love her daughter to dis- 
traction.” 

“No; but Madame Marguerite serves you as a hostage, 
sire.” 

“You are cunning, Chicot. Devil take me, if I thought of 
that ! But you may be right ; a daughter of France would be 
a hostage in case of need. Well, the third ?” 

“ Between the Due d’Anjou, who seeks to make a throne for 
himself in Flanders, between MM. de Guise, who wish for a 
crown, and shake that of France, and his majesty the King of 
Spain, who wishes for universal monarchy, you hold the balance 
and maintain a certain equilibrium.” 

“ I, without weight ?” 

“ Just so. If you became powerful, that is to say, heavy, you 
would turn the scale, and would be no longer a counterpoise, 
but a weight.” 

“ Ah { I like that reason, and it is admirably argued. This 
is the explanation of my situation ?” 

“ Complete.” 

“ And I, who did not see all this, and went on hoping.” 

“Well, sire, I counsel you to cease to hope.” 

“ Then I must do for this debt what I do for those of my 
farmers who cannot pay their rent ; I put a P against their 
names.” 

“ Which means paid.” 

“Just so.” 

“ Put two P’s, sire, and give a sigh.” 

“ So be it, Chicot ; you see I can live in Bearn, even without 
Cahors.” 

“ I see that, and also that you are a wise and philosophical 
king. But what is that noise ?” 

“ Noise, where ?” 

“ In the courtyard, I think ” 

“ Look out of window.” 


THE POOR OF HENRI OF NA VAR RE. 


201 


“Sire, there are below a dozen of poorly-clothed people.” 

“ Ah ! they are my poor , 0 said the king, rising. 

“ Your majesty has poor ?” 

“ Doubtless ; does not God recommend charity ? If I am 
•not a Catholic, Chicot, I am a Christian.” 

“ Bravo, sire !” 

“ Come, Chicot, we will give alms together, and then go to 
supper.” 

“ Sire, I follow you.” 

“ Take that purse lying on the table, near my sword — do you 
see ?” 

They went down, but Henri seemed thoughtful and preoccu- 
pied. Chicot looked at him, and thought, “What the devil 
made me talk politics to this brave prince, and make him sad ? 
Fool that I was P 

Once in the court, Henri approached the group of mendi- 
cants. There were a dozen men in different costumes. Henri 
took the purse from the hands of Chicot and made a sign, and 
then each man came forward and saluted Henri with an air of 
humility, which did not preclude a glance full of intelligence at 
the king. Henri replied by a motion of the head ; then, putting 
his fingers into the purse, which Chicot held open, he took out 
a piece. 

“ Do you know that it is gold, sire ?” said Chicot. 

“Yes, my friend, I know.” 

“ Peste ! you are rich.” 

“ Do you not see that each of these pieces serves for two ? 
On the contrary, I am so poor that I am forced to cut my gold 
in two.” 

“ It is true,” said Chicot, with surprise ; “ they are half-pieces, 
with fantastic designs.” 

“ Oh, I am like my brother Henri, who amuses himself in 
cutting out images ; I amuse myself with clipping my ducats.” 

“ Nevertheless, sire, it is an odd method of giving charity,” 
said Chicot, who divined some hidden mystery. 

“ What would you do ?” 

“ Instead of cutting the gold, I would give one piece between 
two. ” 

“ They would fight, and I should do harm instead of good.” 

Henri then took one of the pieces, and, placing himself be- 
fore the first beggar, looked at him inquiringly. 

“ Agen,” said the man. 


202 


THE FORTY -FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


“ How many ?” asked Henri. 

“ Five hundred.” 

“ Cahors and he gave him the piece and took a second. 

The man bowed and withdrew 

The next advanced and said, “ Auch.” 

“ How many ?” 

‘‘Three hundred and fifty.” 

“ Cahors and he gave him his piece. 

“ Narbonne,” said the third. 

“ How many ?” 

“ Eight hundred ” 

“ Cahors and he gave him his piece. 

“Montauban,” said the fourth. 

“How many ?” 

“ Six hundred.” 

“ Cahors.” 

Each one in this way pronounced a name and a number, 
and received a piece of gold, and to each Henri replied, 
“ Cahors ” 

This over, there were no pieces left in the purse. 

“ That is all, sire,” said Chicot. 

“ Yes ; I have finished.” 

“ Sire, am I permitted to be curious ?” 

“ Why not ? Curiosity is natural.” 

“ What did these beggars say, and what did you reply ?” 
Henri smiled. 

“ Indeed,” continued Chicot, “all is mysterious here.” 

“ Do you think so ?” 

“ Yes ; I have never seen alms given in that way.” 

“ It is the custom at Nerac.” 

“A singular one, sire.” 

“ No, nothing is more simple ; each of those men came frcm 
a different city.” 

“Well, sire?” 

“ Well, that I may not always give to the same, they each 
tell me the name of their town, so that I can distribute my 
benefits equally among all the unfortunates in my kingdom.” 

“ Yes, sire ; but why did you answer ‘ Cahors ?’ ” 

“Ah !” cried Henri, with a most natural air of surprise, “did 
I say ‘ Cahors ?’ ” 

“Yes, sire.” 

“ You think so ?” 


THE POOR OF HENRI OF A A VARRE. 


203 


“ I am sure of it.” 

“ It must have been because we had been talking so much 
about it. I wish for it so much that I must have spoken of it 
without meaning to do so.” 

“ Hum ! r said Chicot, suspiciously, “ and then there w r as 
something else ” 

“ What ! something else ?” 

“ A number that each one pronounced, and which, added 
together, made more than eight thousand.” 

“ Ah ! as to that, Chicot, I did not understand it myself ; 
unless, as the beggars are divided into corporations, they each 
named the number of members, which seems to me probable.” 

“ Sire, sire !” 

“ Come and sup, my friend , nothing enlightens the mind 
like eating and drinking. Let us go to table, and you shall 
see that if my pistoles are cut, my bottles are full.” 

Then, passing his arm familiarly through Chicot’s, the king 
went back to his room, where supper was served. Passing by 
the queen’s room, he glanced at it, and saw no light. 

“Page,” said he, “is not her majesty at home?” 

“ Her majesty is gone to see Mademoiselle de Montmorency, 
who is ill.” 

“ Ah ! poor Fosseuse !” said Henri ; “ it is true, the queen 
has such a good heart. Come to supper, Chicot” 


CHAPTER L. 

THE TRUE MISTRESS OF THE KING OF NAVARRE. 

The repast was joyous. Henri seemed no longer to have any 
weight either on his heart or his mind, and he was an excellent 
companion. As for Chicot, he dissembled the uneasiness he 
had felt since the coming of the Spanish ambassador and the 
scene with the mendicants. He endeavoured to drink little and 
keep cool to observe everything; but this Henri would not 
allow. However, Chicot had a head of iron, and as for Henri, 
he said he could drink these wines of the country like milk* 


204 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


“ I envy you,” said Chicot to the king; “your court is de- 
lightful, and your life pleasant ” 

“ If my wife were here, Chicot, I would not say what I am 
about to say, but in her absence I will tell you that the best 
part of my life is that which you do not see.” 

“ Ah ! sire, they tell, indeed, fine tales of you.” 

Henri leaned back in his chair to laugh. 

“ They say I reign more over my female than my male sub- 
jects, do they not ? ’ said he. 

“ Yes, sire, and it astonishes me.” 

“ Why so ?” 

“ Because, sire, you have much of that restless spirit which 
makes great kings.” 

“ Ah, Chicot ! you are wrong ; I am lazy, and the proof of 
it is in my life. If I have a love to choose, I take the nearest ; 
if a wine, the bottle close to my hand. To your health, Chicot.” 

“ Sire, you do me honour,” said Chicot, emptying his glass. 

“ Thus,” continued the king, “ what quarrels in my house- 
hold !” 

“ Yes, I understand ; all the ladies-in-waiting adore you, 
sire.” 

“ They are my neighbours, Chicot.” 

“ Then, sire, it might result from this, that if you lived at 
St. Denis instead of Nerac, the king might not live very tran- 
quilly.” 

“ The king ! what do you say, Chicot ? Do you think I am 
a Guise ? I wish for Cahors, it is true, because it is near to 
me.” 

“ Ventre de biche, sire, this ambition for things within the 
reach of your hand, resembles much that of Caesar Borgia, who 
gathered together a kingdom, city by city ; saying that Italy was 
an artichoke to be eaten leaf by leaf.” 

“ This Caesar Borgia was not a bad politician, it seems to me, 
compere.” 

“No, but he was a very dangerous neighbour and a bad 
brother.” 

“ Ah ! would you compare me to the son of a pope — I, a 
Huguenot chief?” 

“ Sire, I compare you to no one.” 

“ Why not ?” 

“ I believe he would be wrong who should liken vou to any 
other than yourself. You are ambitious, sire.” 


THE KIXG OF HA VARRE'S TRUE MISTRESS. 


205 


“ Here is a man determined to make me want something,” 
cried Henri. 

“ God forbid, sire ; I desire with ail my heart, on the com 
trary, that your majesty should want nothing.” 

“ Nothing calls you back to Paris, does it, Chicot ?” 

4 'No, sire.” 

“ Then you will pass some days with me ?” 

“ If your majesty does me the honour to wish for my com- 
pany, I ask no better than to give you a week.’* 

“ So be it ; in a week you will know me like a brother. 
Drink, Chicot.” 

“ Sire, I am no longer thirsty,” said Chicot, who had given up 
all hopes of seeing the king take too much. 

44 Then, I will leave you ; a man should not stay at table 
when he does nothing. Drink, I tell you.” 

44 Why, sire ?” 

“To sleep better. Do you like the chase, Chicot ?” 

44 Not much, sire ; and you?” 

44 Passionately ; since I lived at the court of Charles IX.” 

44 Why did your majesty do me the honour to ask me ?” 

4 ‘ Because I hunt to morrow, and thought to take you with 
me.” 

44 Sire, it would be a great honour, but ” 

44 Oh ! this chase will rejoice all eyes ; besides, I am a good 
hunter, and I wish you to see me to advantage.” 

“ Sire, I am at your orders.” 

Good ! then it is settled. Ah ! here is a page to disturb 

us.” 

44 Some important business, sire ?” 

44 Business at table ! You think you are still at the court of 
France, my dear Chicot. Learn one thing ; at N£rac, when we 
have supped, we go to bed.” 

44 But this page ?” 

44 Well, cannot he come for anything but business ?” 

44 Ah ! I understand ; and I will go to bed.” 

Chicot rose ; the king did the same, and took his arm. This 
haste to send him away appeared suspicious to Chicot, and he 
determined not to leave the room if he could help it. 

44 Oh ! oh !” said he, tottering, 44 it is astonishing, sire.” 

The king smiled. 44 What is astonishing ?” 

44 Ventre de biche ! my head turns ; while I sat still, it was 
all very well, but when I rise ” 


206 


THE FORTY FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


“Bah !” said Henri, “we only tasted the wine.” 

“ You call that tasting, sire ? You are a drinker, and I do 
you homage, as to my superior.” 

“ Chicot, my friend,” said Henri, endeavouring to make out 
by one of his keen glances if Chicot were really drunk or pre- 
tending, “ the best thing you can do is to go to bed.” 

“Yes, sire ; good night.” 

“ Good evening, Chicot.” 

“ Yes, sire, you are right ; the best thing Chicot can do is to 
go to bed.” And he laydown on the floor 

Henri glanced towards the door, and then, approaching him, 
said, “ You are so drunk, my poor Chicot, that you have taken 
my floor for your bed.” 

“Chicot does not mind little things.” 

“But I expect some one.” 

“For supper; yes, let us sup ” And Chicot made a 

fruitless effort to rise. 

“ Ventre St. Gris ! how quickly you get drunk. But go along, 
mordieu ! she is getting impatient.” 

“ She, who ?” 

“The lady I expect.” 

“ A lady ; why did you not say, Henriquet ? Ah ! pardon, I 

thought I was speaking r- to the king of France. He has 

spoiled me, that good Henriquet. Ah ! I will go.” 

“You are a gentleman, Chicot. Now go quickly.” 

“Adieu, sire; a good night to you.” 

“ Adieu ! and sleep well. You will find the page in the gal- 
lery, who will show you your room.” 

Chicot went out ; but, after taking a few steps, returned just 
in time to see Henri let in — not a woman, but a man. Chicot 
put his eye to the large keyhole. 

The man took off his hat, and Chicot saw the noble but severe 
face of Duplessis-Mornay, the rigid and vigilant counsellor of 
Henri of Navarre. 

“ Ah !” thought Chicot, “ this will annoy our lover more than 
I did.” 

But Henri’s face showed only joy; and after locking the 
door, he sat down eagerly to examine some maps, plans, and 
letters, which his minister had brought him. The king then 
began to write and to mark the maps. 

“ Oh ! this is the way Henri of Navarre makes love,” thought 
Chicot. 


THE KING OF NAVARRE'S TRUE MISTRESS. 20 7 


At this moment he heard steps behind him, and fearful of 
being surprised, he turned hastily away, and, seeing the page, 
asked for his room. 

“ Come with me, if you please, monsieur,” said D’Aubiac, 
“ and I will conduct you.” 

Chicot began to understand the King of Navarre. There- 
fore, instead of going to sleep, he sat sombre and thoughtful on 
his bed, while the moon shed its silver light over stream and 
meadows. 

“ Henri is a real king, and he conspires,” thought Chicot, 
“ All this palace, park, town — the whole province — is a focus 
of conspiracy All the women make love, but it is political 
love , and all the men live in the hope of a future. Henri is 
clever, his talent borders on genius, and he is in communica- 
tion with Spain, the land of deceit. Who knows if even his 
noble answer to the ambassador was not a farce, and if he did 
not warn the ambassador of it by seme sign unknown to me ? 
Henri has spies ; those beggars w r ere nothing more nor less than 
gentlemen in disguise. Those pieces of gold, so artistically cut, 
were pledges of recognition — rallying signs. 

k * Henri feigns to care for nothing but love and pleasure, and 
then passes his time working with Mornay, who never seems to 
sleep, and does not know what love means. Queen Marguerite 
has lovers, and the king knows it/ and tolerates them, because 
he has need of them, or of her — perhaps of both. Happily, 
God, in giving him the genius for intrigue, did not add to it 
that of war ; for they say he is afraid of the noise of musketry, 
and that when he was taken, when quite young, to battle, he 
could not stay more than a quarter of an hour in the saddle. It 
is lucky, for if he had the arm, as well as the head, this man 
might do anything. 

There is certainly the Due de Guise, who has both, but ne 
has the disadvantage of being known as brave and skilful, so 
that every one is on their guard against him, while no one fears 
the Bearnais. I alone have seen through him. Well, having 
seen through him, I have no more to do here ; so while he 
works or sleeps, I will go quietly out of the city. There are 
not many ambassadors, I think, who can boast of having ful- 
filled their mission in one dry, as I have. So I will leave Nerac, 
and gallop till I am in France.” And he began to put on his 
spurs. 


THE FORTY- FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


20S 


CHAPTER LI. 

chicot’s astonishment at finding himself so popular 
in nerac. 

Chicot, having taken his resolution, began to prepare lus little 
packet. “ How much time will it take me," thought he, as he 
did so, “ to carry to the king the news of what I have seen and 
fear? Two days to arrive at a city whence the governor can 
send couriers ; Cahors, for example, of which Henri of Navarre 
thinks so much. Once there, I can rest, for after all a man 
must rest some time. Come, then, Chicot, speed and sang 
froid. You thought you had accomplished your mission, and 
you are but half-way through it.” 

Chicot now extinguished the light, opened his door softly, 
and began to creep down stairs on tip -toe. 

He went into an ante-chamber, but he had hardly gone four 
steps before he kicked against something. This something was 
D’Aubiac lying on a mat. 

“ Ah ! good evening, M. d’Aubiac,” said Chicot, “ but get 
out of the way a little, I beg ; I want to go for a walk.” 

“Ah ! but it is forbidden to walk by night near this castle.” 

“ Why so ?” 

“ Because the king fears robbers, and the queen lovers.” 

“ Diable !” 

“ None but robbers or lovers want to walk at night, when 
they ought to be sleeping.” 

“ However, dear M. d’Aubiac,” said Chicot, with his most 
charming smile, “ I am neither the one nor the other, but an 
ambassador, very tired from having talked Latin with the queen 
and supped with the king ; let me go out then, my friend, for I 
want a walk.” 

“In the city, M. Chicot ?” 

“ Oh no ! in the gardens.” 

“ Peste ! that is still more forbidden than in the city.” 

“ My little friend, you are very vigilant for your age. Have 
you nothing to occupy yourself with ?” 

“He.” 


CHICO T AS TO. \ IS II ED A T 11 IS DO PL ’L A PI TV. 209 

“You neither gamble nor fall in love.” 

“ To gamble one must have money, M. Chicot, and to be in 
love, one must find a lady.” 

“Assuredly,” said Chicot, and feeling in his pocket he drew 
out ten pistoles and slipped them into the page’s hand, saying, 
“Seek well in your memory, and I bet you will find some 
cn arming woman, to whom I beg you to make some presents 
with this.” 

“ Oh, M. Chicot !” said the page, “ it is easy to see that 
you come from the court of France ; you have manners 
to whi:h one can refuse nothing; go then, but make no 
noise.” 

Chicot went on ; glided like a shadow into the corridor, and 
down the staircase, but at the bottom he found an officer sleep- 
ing on a chair, placed right against the door, so that it was 
impossible to pass. 

“Ah! little wretch of a page,” murmured Chicot, “you 
\new this.” 

Chicot looked round him to see if he could find no other 
way by which he could escape with the assistance of his long 
legs. At last he saw what he wanted : it was an arched 
window, of which the glass was broken. Chicot climbed up 
the wall with his accustomed skill, and without making more 
noise than a dry leaf in the autumn wind ; but unluckily, the 
opening was not big enough, so when he had got his head and 
one shoulder through, and had taken away his foot from its 
resting place on the wall, he found himself hanging between 
heaven and earth, without being able either to advance or 
retreat. 

He began then a series of efforts, of which the first result 
was to tear his doublet and scratch his skin. What rendered 
his position more difficult was his sword, of which the handle 
would not pass, making a hook by which Chicot hung on to 
the sash. He exerted all his strength, patience, and industry, 
to unfasten the clasp of his shoulder-belt ; but it was just on 
this clasp that his body leaned, therefore he was obliged to 
change his manoeuvre, and at last he succeeded in drawing his 
sword from its sheath and pushing it through one of the inter- 
stices ; the sword therefore fell first on the flagstones, and 
Chicot now managed to get through after it. All this, however, 
was not done without noise, therefore Chicot, on rising, found 
himself face fro face with a soldier. 


14 


210 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


“ Ah ! mon Dieu ! have you hurt yourself, M. Chicot ?” 
said he. 

Chicot was surprised, but said, “ No, my friend, not at all.” 

“ That is very lucky , there are not many people who could 
do such a thing ” 

“ But how the devil did you know my name ?” 

“ I saw you to-day at the palace, and asked who was the 
gentleman that was talking with the king.” 

“ Well ! I am in a hurry ; allow me to pass.” 

“ But no one goes out of the palace by night ; those are my 
orders/' 

“ But you see they do come out, since I am here.” 

“ Yes, but ” 

‘‘But what ?’ 

“ You must go back, M. Chicot.” 

“ Oh ! no.” 

“ How ! no ?” 

“ Not by that way, at all events ; it is too troublesome.” 

“If I were an officer instead of a soldier, I would ask you 
why you come out so ; but that is not my business, which is 
only that you should go back again. Go in, therefore, M. 
Chicot, I beg you.” 

And the soldier said this in such a persuasive tone, that 
Chicot was touched. Consequently he put his hand in his 
pocket and drew out another ten pistoles 

“ You must understand, my friend,” said he, “ that as I have 
torn my clothes in passing through once, I should make them 
still worse by going back again, and should have to go naked, 
which would be very indecent in a court where there are so 
many young and pretty women ; let me go then to my tailor.” 
And he put the money in his hand. 

“ Go quickly then, M. Chicot,” said the man. 

Chicot was in the street at last. The night was not favour- 
able for flight, being bright and cloudless, and he regretted 
the foggy nights of Paris, where people might pass close to 
each other unseen. The unfortunate fugitive had no sooner 
turned the corner of the street than he met a patrol. He 
stopped of himself, thinking it wouid look suspicious to try and 
pass unseen. 

“ Oh, good evening, M. Chicot !” said the chief ; “ shall we 
reconduct you to the palace ? You seem as though you had lost 
your way.” 


CHICO T ASTONISHED A T HIS POPULARITY. 2 1 1 

“ It is very strange,” murmured Chicot, “ every one knows 
me here.'’ Then aloud, and as carelessly as he could, “ No, 
cornet, I am not going to the palace.” 

“ You are wrong, M. Chicot,” replied the officer, gravely. 

“ Why so, monsieur ?” 

“ Because a very severe edict forbids the inhabitants of 
Nerac to go out at night without permission and without a 
lantern.” 

“ Excuse me, monsieur, but this edict cannot apply to me, 
who do not belong to Nerac.” 

“ But you are at Nerac. Inhabitant means living at , now 
you cannot deny that you live at Nerac, since I see you 
here.” 

“ You are logical, monsieur. Unluckily, I am in a hurry; 
make an exception to your rule, and let me pass, I beg.” 

“ You will lose yourself, M. Chicot ; Nerac is a strange town. 
Allow three of my men to conduct you to the palace.” 

“ But I am not going there, I tell you.” 

“ Where are you going, then ?” 

“ I cannot sleep well at night, and then I always walk. 
Nerac is a charming city, and I wish to see it.” 

“ My men shall conduct you where you please.” 

“ Oh, monsieur, I would rather go alone.” 

“You will be assassinated.” 

“ I have my sword.” 

“Ah, true ; then you will be arrested tor bearing arms.” 

Chicot, driven to despair, drew the officer aside, and said : 

“ Come, monsieur, you are young; you know what love is — 
an imperious tyrant.” 

“ Doubtless, M. Chicot.” 

“ Well, cornet, I have a certain lady to visit.” 

“ Where ?” 

“In a certain place.” 

“ Young ?” 

“ Twenty-three years old.” 

“ Beautiful ?” 

“ As the graces.” 

“ I felicitate you, M. Chicot.” 

“ Then you will let me pass ?” 

“ It seems I must.” 

“ And alone ; I cannot compromise ” 

“ Of course not ; pass on, M. Chicot.” 


14 — 2 


212 


THE FORTY- FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


“ You are a gallant man. cornet. But how did you know 
me ?” 

“ I saw you at the palace with the king. Apropos, which way 
are you going ?” 

“Towards the Porte of Agen. Am I not in the right 
road ?” 

“ Yes, go straight on ; I wish you success.” 

“Thank you;” and Chicot went on. But before he had 
taken a hundred steps he met the watch. 

*Peste ! this town is well guarded,” thought Chicot. 

“ You cannot pass !” cried the provost, in a voice of thunder. 

“ But, monsieur, I want ” 

“ Ah, M. Chicot, is it you ? In the streets in this cold ?” 
asked the officer. 

“ Ah, decidedly ! It must be a bet,” thought Chicot ; and, 
bowing, he tried to pass on. 

“ M. Chicot, take care !” said the provost. 

“ Take care of what ?” 

“ You are going wrong ; you are going towards the gates.” 

“Just so.” 

“ Then I arrest you !” 

“ Not so, monsieur; you would be very wrong.” 

“ However ” 

“ Approach, monsieur, that your soldiers may not hear.” 

The man approached. 

“The king has given me a commission for the lieutenant of 
the Porte of Agen.” 

“ Ah !” 

“ That astonishes you ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ It ought not, since you know me.” 

“ I know you from having seen you at the palace with the 
king.” 

Chicot stamped his foot impatiently. “That should prove to 
you that I possess the king’s confidence.” 

“ Doubtless ; go on, M. Chicot, and execute your commis- 
sion.” 

“ Come,” thought Chicot, “ I advance slowly, but I do ad- 
vance. Ventre de biche ! here is a gate ; it must be that of 
Agen ; in five minutes I shall be out.” 

He arrived at the gate, which was guarded by a sentinel 
walking up and down, his musket on hi-s shoulder. 


CHICOT ASTONISHED A T HIS POPULARITY. 


“ My friend, will you open the gate for me ?” said Chicot. 

“ I cannot, M. Chicot,” replied the man, “ being only a 
private soldier.” 

“ You also know me ?” cried Chicot in a rage. 

“ I have that honour ; I was on guard at the palace this morn- 
ing, and saw you talking with the king.” 

“ Well ! my friend, the king has given me a very urgent 
message to convey to Agen ; open the postern for me.” 

“I would with pleasure, but I have not the keys.” 

“ And who has them ?” # 

“ The officer for the night.” 

Chicot sighed. 

“ And where is he ?” 

The soldier rang a bell to wake his officer. 

“ What is it ?” said he, passing his head through a window. 

“ Lieutenant, it is a gentleman who wants the gate opened.” 

“Ah ! M. Chicot,” cried the officer, “I will be down in a 
moment.” 

“ What ! does every one know me ?” cried Chicot. “Nerac 
seems a lantern, and I the candle.” 

“ Excuse me, monsieur,” said the officer, approaching, “ but 
I was asleep.” 

“ Oh ! monsieur that is what night is made for ; will you 
be good enough to open the door. Unluckily, I cannot sleep, 
for the king, whom you doubtless also saw me talking to ” 

“ Yes ; I did, monsieur.” 

“ Of course !” growled Chicot. “ Well ! the king has sent 
me on a commission to Agen ; this is the right gate is it not ?” 

“Yes, M. Chicot.” 

“ Will you please to have it opened ?” 

“ Of course. Anthenas, open the gate quickly for M. 
Chicot.” 

Chicot began to breathe ; the door creaked on its hinges, 
and opened, and Chicot saw liberty through it. 

“ Adieu ! monsieur,” said he, advancing. 

“Adieu ! M. Chicot, a pleasant journey. — But stay, one 
moment; I have forgotten to ask for your pass,” cried he, 
seizing Chicot by the sleeve to stop him. 

“ How ! my pass ?” 

“Certainly, M. Chicot; you know what a pass is? Ycu 
understand that no one can leave a town like Nerac without 
,a pass, particularly when the king is in it.” 


214 


THE FORTY- FIVE GUARDSMEN 


“ And who must sign this pass ?” 

u The king himself ; so if he sent you he cannot have forgotten 
to give you a pass.” 

“ Ah ! you doubt that the king sent me ?” cried Chicot, with 
flashing eyes, for he saw himself on the point of failing, and had 
a great mind to kill the officer and sentinel, and rush through 
the gate. 

“ I doubt nothing you tell me, but reflect that if the king gave 
you this commission ” 

“ In person, monsieur.” 

“ All the more reason, then : if he knows you are going out, 

I shall have to give up your pass to-morrow morning to the 
governor.” 

“ And who is he ?” 

“M. de Mornay, who does not jest with disobedience, M. 
Chicot.” 

Chicot put his hand to his sword, but another look showed 
him that the outside of the gate was defended by a guard who 
would have prevented his passing if he had killed the officer 
and sentinel. 

“ Well !” said Chicot to himself, with a sigh ; “ I have lost my 
game,” and he turned back. 

“ Shall I give you an escort, M. Chicot?” said the officer. 

“ No, thank you.” 

Chicot retraced his steps, but he was not at the end of his 
griefs. He met the chief of the watch, who said, “ What ! have 
you finished your commission already, M. Chicot ? Peste ! 
how quick you are !” 

A little farther on the cornet cried to him, “ Well, M. Chicot, 
what of the lady; are you content with Nerac?” 

Finally, the soldier in the courtyard said, “ Cordieu ! M. 
Chicot, the tailor has not done his work well ; you seem more 
torn than when you went out.” 

Chicot did not feel inclined to climb back through the 
window : but by chance, or rather by charity, the door was 
opened, and he returned into the palace. Here he saw the page, 
who said, “ Dear M. Chicot, shall I give you the key to all 
this ?” 

“ Yes, serpent,” murmured Chicot. 

“ Well ! the king loves you so much, he did not wish to lose 
you.” 

And you knew, and never told me ?” 


CHICOT ASTONISHED AT HIS POPULARITY. 215 

“ Oh ! M Chicot, impossible ! It was a state secret.” 

“ But I paid you, knave.” 

“ Oh ! dear M. Chicot, the secret was worth more than ten 
pistoles.’' 

Chicot returned to his room in a rage. 


CHAPTER LII. 

HOW THEY HUNTED THE WOLF IN NAVARRE. 

When Marguerite left the king, she went at once to the apart- 
ments of the maids of honour, and performed her promise with 
regard to Fosseuse. When she returned, the king thanked her 
warmly, and then went up to Chicot’s room, where he found 
him still asleep. Henri shook him to wake him. “Come, 
compere,” said he, “ get up, it is two in the morning.” 

“Ah! you make me a prisoner,” cried Chicot; “I, an 
ambassador. Sire, you violate the rights of nations.” 

Henri began to laugh, and Chicot could not help joining him. 

“You are mad,” said Henri. “Why the devil did you want 
to go away from here , have you not been well treated ?” 

“ Too well, ventre de biche ! too well. It seems to me as if 
I were here like a goose being fattened. Every one says to 
me, ‘ Pretty little Chicot, how gentle he is !’ but they clip my 
wings, and shut the doors on me.” 

“ Oh ! reassure yourself, Chicot ; you are not fat enough for 
my table.” 

“ Sire, you seem very gay this morning ; what is it ?” 

“ I am always gay when I am setting off for the chase. 
Come, out of bed, compere.” 

“ You want me, sire ?” 

“Yes; you shall be my historian.” 

“ To count the shots?” 

“Just so.” 

Chicot dressed murmuringly, while the king remained in the 
ante-chamber. 


z\6 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN, 


“ My horse,” cried Henri ; “ and tell M. de Mornay that I 
am ready.” 

“ What ! is M. de Mornay chief huntsman ?” asked Chicot. 

“ M. de Mornay is everything here,” replied Henri. “ I am 
so poor, than I can afford but one man.” 

“ Yes ; but he is a good one.” 

Chicot found the preparations much less sumptuous than 
those of Henri III. A dozen or fifteen gentlemen only, among 
whom he recognised the Vicomte de Turenne, formed the 
whole suite. And as they were none of them rich, they all 
wore, instead of the usual hunting dress, their helmets and 
cuirasses, which made Chicot ask if the wolves in Gascony 
used muskets and artillery. 

“ No,” said Henri ; “ but they are fierce beasts, who have 
claws and teeth, and draw hunters into places where they are 
likely to tear their clothes on the thorns, if they wear silk and 
velvet, or even cloth and buff, but not if they wear cuirasses.” 

“That is a reason, but not a good one, sire.” 

“ What would you have ? I have no other.” 

“ Then I must be content with this.” 

“ You had better.” 

“So be it.” 

“ You are angry at being disturbed for this chase.” 

“Mafoi! yes.” 

“ So you find fault ?” 

“ Is it forbidden ?” 

“ Oh no.” 

“ You understand, sire, I am no hunter, and have nothing to 
do, so I must amuse myself, while you are thinking of all the 
wolves that a dozen men are going to kill.” 

“ Ah, yes, laugh away, Chicot ; first it was the clothes, now 
the number of wolves.” 

“ Oil, sire !” 

“ But I must say you are not indulgent, for Bearn is not as 
large as France ; so the king goes there with two hundred 
huntsman, I with a dozen, as you see.” 

“Yes, sire.” 

“ But,” said Henri, “ sometimes the country gentlemen, 
hearing I am going, quit their chateaux and join me, which 
sometimes makes up a good escort for me.” 

When they had ridden about half an hour — 

“ Look,” said Henri to Chicot, “ are not those cavaliers that 
I see there ?” 


HOW THEY HUNTED THE WOLF IN NAVARRE. 217 


Chicot looked and said, “ Yes, sire, cavaliers, but not hunts- 
men.” 

“ Why not ?” 

“ Because they are armed like A midis or Rolando,” replied 
Chicot. 

“ Ah ! what matters the dress, my dear Chicot ? you see we 
are not particular as to that.” 

“ But I see at least 200 men there.” 

“ Ah ! that is a good number ” 

Chicot began to feel very curious. He had really named too 
low a number, for the group before them consisted of 200 men, 
who came silently and joined their party ; each man was well 
armed and mounted, and they were led by a gentleman who 
came and kissed Henri’s hand with much devotion. 

They passed the river Gers, and then came on a second troop 
of 100 men ; the chief approached, and seemed to be making 
excuses for not bringing more men. Henri gave him his hand. 
They went on till they came to the Garonne ; this they also 
passed, and about half a league on the other side, 300 cavaliers, 
hidden in a pine forest, suddenly came in sight. 

“Oh! monseigneur,” said Chicot, “are not these enemies 
who have heard of your chase, and wish to oppose it ?” 

“ No, my son, you are wrong ; they are friends from Puz- 
mirol/’ 

“ Mordieu ! sire, you will have more men in your escort than 
trees in your forest.” 

“ Chicot, I really believe the news of your arrival must have 
spread through the country, and all these people have come to 
welcome the ambassador from France.” 

Chicot saw he was being laughed at, and felt rather offended. 

The day finished at Muroy, where the gentlemen of the 
country gave a grand supper to the king, of which Chicot took 
his part enthusiastically, as it had not been deemed necessary 
to stop on the road for anything so unimportant as dinner, and 
he had eaten nothing since he had left Nerac. 

Henri had the best house in the town, half the troop slept 
within doors, the other half in the street where the king was. 

“ When are we to begin the hunt ?” asked Chicot of Henri, 
as he was undressing. 

“We are not yet in the territory of the wolves, my dear 
Chicot.” 

“ And when shall we be ?” 


2 iS 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


“ Curious !” 

“ Not so, sire ; but you understand, one likes to know where 
one is going.’' 

“ You will know to-morrow ; meanwhile, lie down there on 
those cushions on my left ; here is Mornay snoring already at 
my right.” 

“ Peste !” said Chicot, “ he makes more noise asleep than 
awake.” 

“ It is true he is not very talkative ; but see him at the 
chase.” 

Day had partly appeared, when a great noise of horses awoke 
Chicot. They dressed, drank some spiced wine, and took other 
refreshment, and then Henri cried : 

“To horse ! gentlemen, we have a long day’s work before 
us.” 

Chicot saw with astonishment that 500 cavaliers had swelled 
the train during the night. 

“ Sire !” cried he, “ you have an army.” 

“ Wait !” replied Henri. 

At Lauzerte, 600 more men came and ranged themselves be- 
hind the cavaliers. 

“ Foot soldiers !” cried Chicot 

“Nothing but beaters,” said the king. 

Chicot frowned and spoke no more. Twenty times his eyes 
turned towards the country, and the idea of flight presented 
itself to him. But Chicot had his guard of honour, doubtless 
as ambassador of the King of France, and so well was he recom- 
mended to this guard, that he could not make a movement that 
was not repeated by ten men. 

This annoyed him, and he said so to the king. 

“ Diable !” said Henri, “ it is your own fault ; you tried to 
run away from Nerac, and I am afraid you will try it again.” 

“ Sire, if I give my word as a gentleman not to do so ?” 

“ That will do.” 

“ Besides, I should be wrong to do so.” 

“ How so ?” 

“Yes ; for if I stay, I believe I shall see curious things.” 

“I am of your opinion, my dear Chicot.” 

At this moment they were going through the town of Mont- 
cuq, and four field-pieces took their place in the army. 

“ I return to my first idea,” said Chicot, “ that the wolves in 
this country are different from others, and are differently 
treated; with artillery, for instance.” 


HO W THE Y HUNTED THE WOLF IN NA VAR RE. 2 1 9 


“ Ah !” said Henri, “ it is a mania of the people of Montcuq. 
Since I gave them these four pieces they take them about 
everywhere.” 

“ Well, sire, shall we arrive today?” 

“ No, to morrow.” 

“ To-morrow morning or evening?” 

“ Morning.” 

“ Then,” said Chicot, “ it is at Cahors we are to hunt, is it 
not, sire ?” 

“ On that side,” replied Henri. 

“ But, sire, you who have infantry, cavalry, and artillery to 
hunt wolves with, should also have taken the royal standard, 
and then the honour to the wolves would have been com- 
plete.” 

“We have not forgotten it, Chicot, ventre St. Gris ! only it 
is left in the case for fear of dirtying it. But if you wish to 
see it, and know under whose banner you march, you shall 
see it.” 

“No, no, it is useless ; leave it where it is.” 

“ Well, be easy, you will see it before long.” 

They passed the second night at Catus. Troops kept ar- 
riving all night. 

“ It is lucky we are not going on to Paris,” said Chicot, “ we 
should arrive with 100,000 men.” 

The next morning, by eight o’clock, they were before Cahors, 
with 1,000 foot soldiers and 2,000 horse. 

They found the city in a state of defence, M. de Vezin having 
heard rumours of the advance. 

“ Ah !” said the king, “ he is warned ; that is very an- 
noying.” 

“ We must lay siege in due form, sire,” said Mornay * “ we 
expect still about 2,000 men, and that is enough.” 

“ Let us assemble the council and begin the trenches.” 

Chicot listened to all this in amazement. The pensive air of 
Henri alone reassured him, for it confirmed his suspicions that 
he was no warrior. He let every one speak, and said nothing. 
All at once he raised his head, and said in a commanding 
tone : 

“ Gentlemen, this is what we must do. We have 3,000 men, 
and you say you expect 2,000 more, Mornay ?” 

“ Yes, sire.” 

a That will make 5,000. In a regular siege we should lose 


220 


THE FORTY-HVE GUARDSMEW 


1,000 or 1,500 men in two months, their death would discourage 
the others, and we should lose 1,000 more in retreating. Let 
us sacrifice 500 men at once, and take Cahors by assault. * 

“ What do you mean, sire ?*' said Mornay. 

“ My dear friend, we will go straight to the nearest gate. We 
shall find a fosse in our way, which we will cover with fascines ; 
we may leave 200 men on the road, but we shall reach the 
gate.” 

“ After, sire ?” 

“ Then we will break it down with petards and go in. It 
will not be difficult.” 

Chicot looked at Henri, astonished. 

“ Oh !” growled he, “ perhaps he is a coward and a boaster.” 

“ Let us not lose time, gentlemen,” cried Henri. “ Forward, 
and let all who love me follow.” 

Chicot approached Mornay. 

“ Well ! M. le Comte,” said he, “ do you all want to be cut 
to pieces ?” 

“ Oh ! we take our chance.” 

“ But the king will get killed.” 

“ Bah ! he has a good cuLass.” 

“ But he will not be foolish enough to fight himself, I sup- 
pose ?” 

Mornay shrugged his shoulders and turned on his heel. 

“ After all, I like him better asleep than awake ; he is more 
polite snoring than speaking,” said Chicot. 


HOW HENRI OF NA VARRE BEHA VED IN BA TILE, 22* 


CHAPTER LIII. 

HOW HENRI OF NAVARRE BEHAVED IN BATTLE. 

The little army advanced near the town, then they breakfasted. 
The repast over, two hours were given for the officers and men 
to rest. Henri was very pale, and his hands trembled visibly, 
when at three o’clock in the afternoon the officers appeared 
under his tent. 

“ Gentlemen,” said he, “ we are here to take Cahors ; there- 
fore we must take it— by force. Do you understand ? M. de 
Biron, who has sworn to hang every Huguenot, is only forty- 
five leagues from here, and doubtless a messenger is already 
despatched to him by M. de Vezin. In four or five days he 
will be on us, and as he has 10,000 men with him, we should 
be taken between the city and him. Let us, then, take Cahors 
before he comes, that we may receive him well. Come, gentle- 
men, I will put myself at your head, and let the blows fall as 
thick as hail.” 

The men replied to this speech by enthusiastic cries. 

*• Well said,” said Chicot to himself. “ It was lucky he had 
not to speak with his hands, though, or he would have stam- 
mered finely. Let us see him at the work.” 

As they were setting off, the king said to Chicot : 

*• Pardon me, friend Chicot, I deceived you by talking of 
wolves, hunting, and such things, but you see Henri will not pay 
me his sister’s dowry, and Margot cries cut for her dear Cahors. 
One must do what one’s wife wants, for peace’ sake ; .therefore 
I am go ; ng to try and take Cahors.” 

“ Why did she not ask you for the moon, sire, as you are such 
a complaisant husband ?” 

“ I would have tried for it, Chicot, I love my dear Margot so 
much !” 

“ You will have quite enough to do with Cahors, and we shall 
see how you will get out of it.” 

“.Ah ! yes, the moment is critical and very disagreeable. 
Ah ! I am not brave, and my nature revolts at every cannonade, 
Chicot, my friend, do not laugh too much at the poor Bearnais, 


222 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


your compatriot and friend. If I am afraid and you find it cut, 
tell no one. ,, 

“If you are afraid ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Are you, then, afraid of being afraid ?” 

“ I am.” 

“ But then, ventre debiche, why the devil do you undertake 
such a thing?” 

“ I must.” 

“ M. de Vezin is a terrible person.” 

“ I know it well.” 

“ Who gives quarter to no one.” 

“ You think so, Chicot ? ’ 

“I am sure of it ; red plume or white, he will not care, but 
cry, Fire !” 

“ You say that for my white feather, Chicot.” 

“ Yes, sire, and as you are the only one who wears that 
colour ” 

“ Well !” 

“ I would take it off.” 

“ But I put it on that I might be recognised.” 

“ Then you will keep it ?” 

“ Yes, decidedly.” And Henri trembled again as he said it. 

“ Come, sire,” said Chicot, who did not understand this dif- 
ference between words and gestures, “ there is still time ; do not 
commit a folly ; you cannot mount on horseback in that state.” 

“Am I, then, very pale, Chicot?” 

“As pale as death, sire.” 

“Good.” 

“ How good ?” 

At this moment the noise of cannon and a furious fire of 
musketry was heard ; it was M. de Vezin’s reply to the summons 
to surrender given by Mornay. 

“ Hem !” said Chicot, “ what do you think of this music, 
sire ?” 

“ It makes me cold in the marrow of my bones,” replied 
Henri “ Here, my horse ! my horse !” cried he. 

Chicot looked and listened, unable to understand him. Henry 
mounted, and then said, — 

“ Come, Chicot, get on horseback too ; you are not a warrior, 
either, are you ?” 

“No, sire.” 


HOW I1ENRI OF NAVARRE BEHAVED IN BATTLE. 223 

“ Well, come, we will be afraid together ; come and see, my 
friend. A gcol horse here, for M. Chicot.” 

Henri set off at full gallop, and Chicot followed him. On 
arriving in front of his little army, Henry raised his visor, and 
cried, — 

“ Out with the banner ! out with the new banner !” 

They drew forth the banner, which had the double scutcheon 
of Navarre and Bourbon ; it was white, and had chains of gold 
on one side, and fleur-de-lis on the other. 

Again the cannon from Cahors were fired, and the balls tore 
through a file of infantry near the king. 

“ Ventre St. Gris ! did you see, Chicot ?” said the king, whose 
teeth chattered. 

“He will be ill,” thought Chicot. 

“ Cursed body,” murmured Henri, “ ah ! you fear, you 
tremble ; wait till you have something to tremble for.” And 
striking his spurs into his horse, he rushed onwards before 
c.ivalry, infantry, and artillery, and arrived at a hundred feet 
from the place, red with the fire of the batteries which thundered 
from above. There, he kept his horse immovable for ten 
minutes, his face turned towards the gate of the city, and crying, 
“ The fascines ! ventre St. Gris ! the fascines !” 

Mornay had followed him, sword in hand, and then came 
Chicot; behind them the young Huguenot gentlemen, crying, 
“ Vive Navarre P and each with a fascine, which he threw in, 
and the fosse was soon filled. Then came the artillery, and 
with the loss of thirty men succeeded in placing their petards 
under the gate. The shot whistled like a whirlwind of iron 
round Henri’s head, and twenty men fell in an instant before 
his eyes. “ Forward !” cried he, and rushed on through the 
midst of the fire, and arrived just as the soldiers had fired the 
first petard. The gate was broken in two places ; the second 
petard was lighted, and a new opening was made in the wood ; 
but twenty arquebuses immediately passed through, vomiting 
balls on the soldiers and officers, and the men fell like mowed 
grass. 

“ Sire,” cried Chicot, “ in Heaven’s name retire !” 

Mornay said nothing ; he was proud of his pupil, but from 
time to time he tried to place himself before him. Once Henri 
felt the damp on his brow, and a cloud pass over his eyes. 

“ Ah, cursed nature,” cried he, “ you shall not conquer me !” 
Then, jumping 6ff his horse, “ An axe !” cried he, and with a 


THE FORTY FIVE GUARDSMEN, \ 


2 -4 

vigorous arm he struck down wood and iron. At last a beam 
gave way, and a part of the gate and a portion of .the wall fell, 
and one hundred men rushed to the breach, crying, “ Navarre ! 
Navarre ! Cahors is ours !” 

Chicot had not quitted the king ; he was with him under the 
gate when he entered, one of the first, but at each discharge he 
saw him shudder and lower his head. 

“ Ventre St. Gris ! did you ever see such a coward, Chicot ?” 
said he. 

“ No, sire, I have never seen a coward like you.” 

The soldiers of M. de Vezin now tried to dislodge Henri and 
his advanced guards, who received them sword in hand ; but 
the besieged were the strongest, and succeeded in forcing Henri 
and his troops back beyond the fosse. 

“ Ventre St. Gris !” cried the king, “ I believe my flag retreats; 
I must carry it myself.” And snatching it from the hands of 
those who held it, he was the first to rush forward again, half 
enveloped in its folds. The balls whistled round him, and 
pierced the flag with a hollow sound. A long hand-to-hand 
fight ensued, above all the uproar of which M. de Vezin’s voice 
was heard crying, “ Barricade the streets ! let trenches be dug ! 
and the houses garrisoned !” 

“Oh !” cried M. de Turenne, “the siege of the city is over, 
Vezin.” And as he spoke he fired at him and wounded him in 
the arm. 

“You are wrong, Turenne,” cried M. de Vezin, “there are 
twenty sieges in Cahors ; so if one is over, there are nineteen to 
come.” 

M. de Vezin defended himself during five days and nights 
from street to street and from house to house. Luckily for the 
rising fortunes of Henri of Navarre, he had counted too much 
on the walls and garrison of Cahors, and had neglected to send 
to M. de Biron. 

During these five days and nights, Henri commanded like a 
captain and fought like a soldier, slept with his head on a stone, 
and awoke sword in hand. Each day they conquered a street 
or a square, which each night the garrison tried to retake. On 
the fourth night the enemy seemed willing to give some rest to 
the Protestant army. Then it was Henri who attacked in his 
turn. He forced an intrenched position, but it cost him seven 
hundred men. M. de Turenne and nearly all the officers were 
wounded, but the king remained untouched. To the fear that 


HOW HENRI OF NAVARRE BEHAVED IN BATTLE. 225 

he had felt at first, and which he had so heroically vanquished, 
succeeded a feverish restlessness, a rash audacity* All the 
fastenings of his armour were broken, as much by his own 
efforts as by the blows of the enemy. He struck so vigorously 
that he always killed his man. When this last post was forced, 
the king entered into the enclosure, followed by the eternal 
Chicot, who, silent and sad, had for five days seen growing at 
his sides the phantom of a monarchy destined to destroy that 
of the Valois. 

“Well, Chicot, of what are you thinking ?” said Henri to 
him. 

“Sire, that you are a real king.” 

“And I, sire, that you are too imprudent,” said Mornay, “to 
put up your vizor when they are firing at you from all sides.” 

As he spoke a dozen arquebuses were fired at them ; one ball 
struck off a plume from Henri’s helmet, his horse was killed by 
another, and Mornay’s had his leg broken. The king fell, and 
there might have finished his career ; but Chicot, whirling his 
sword round to keep off the nearest, helped Henri up and gave 
him his own horse, saying, “Sire, you will testify to the King of 
France that, if I drew the sword against him, I killed no one.” 

“ Ventre St. Gris ! you must be mine, Chicot !” cried Henri 
“ You shall live and die with me.” 

“ Sire, I have but one service to follow — that of my king. 
His star diminishes, but I shall be xaithful to his adverse for- 
tunes. Let me serve and love him as long as I live, sire. I 
shall soon be alone with him ; do not envy him his last ser- 
vant.” 

“ Chicot, you will be always dear to me, and, after Henri of 
France, you will have Henri of Navarre for a friend.” 

“ Yes, sire,” said Chicot simply, kissing his hand. 

The siege was soon over after this. M. de Vezin was taken, 
and the garrison surrendered. 

Then Henri dictated to Mornay a letter, which Chicot was to 
carry to the King of France. It was written in bad Latin, ar.d 
finished with these words : 

“ Quod mihi dixisti profuit multum. Cognosco meos devotos ; 
nosce tuos. Chicotos caetera expedit.” 

Which means, “ What you told me was very useful. I know 
my faithful followers ; know yours. Chicot will tell you the 
rest.” 

“ And now, friend Chicot,” said Henri, “ embrace me > but 

*5 


/ 


226 THE FOE TV- FIVE GUARDSMEN . 

take care not to soil yourself, for, mordieu, I am as bl-oody as i 
butcher. Take my ring, and adieu, Chicot ; I keep you no 
longer, gallop to France, and tell all you have seen.” 


CHAPTER LIV 

WHAT WAS PASSING AT THE LOUVRE ABOUT THE TIME CHICOT 
ENTERED NERAC. 

The necessity of following Chicot to the end of his mission has 
kept us a long time away from the Louvre. The king, after 
having passed so bravely through his adventurous return from 
Vincennes, experienced that retrospective emotion which some 
times is felt by the bravest heart after the danger is over. He 
entered the Louvre without saying anything, made his prayers 
longer than usual, forgetting to thank the officers and guards 
who had served him so well Then he went to bed, astonishing 
his valets by the rapidity of his toilet ; and D’Epernon, who re- 
mained in his room to the last, expecting thanks at least, went 
away in a very bad humour. 

At two o’clock every one siept in the Louvre. The next day, 
Henri took four bouillons in bed instead of two, and then sent 
for MM. de Villeguie and D O to come to his room, to speak 
about a new financial edict. The queen received the order to 
dine alone, but it was added that in the evening the king would 
receive. All day he played with Love, saying, every time that 
the animal showed his white teeth, Ah, rebel ! you want to 
bite me also ; you attack your king also ; but you are conquered, 
M. Love — conquered, wretched leaguer — conquered.” His 
secretaries of State were somewhat astonished at all this, par- 
ticularly as he said nothing else, and signed everything without 
looking at it. At three o’clock in the afternoon, he asked for 
D’Epernon. They replied that he was reviewing the light 
horse ; then he inquired for De Loignac, but he also was absent. 
He asked for lunch, and, while he ate, had an edifying discourse 
read to him, which he interrupted by sayim to the reader, 
“Was it not Plutarch who wrote the life of Sylla?” 

“ Yes, sire,” said the reader, much astonished at being inter- 
rupted in his pious reading by this orofane question. 


WHAT WAS PASSING AT THE LOUVRE . 


227 


“ Do you remember that passage where the historian recounts 
how the dictator avoided death ?” 

The reader hesitated. 

“ Not precisely, sire ; it is a long time since I read Plu- 
tarch ” 

At this moment, the Cardinal de Joyeuse was announced. 

“Ah ! here is a learned man, he will tell me at once !” cried 
the king. 

“Sire," said the cardinal, “am I lucky enough to arrive apropos 
- — it is a rare thing in this world. ’ 

“ Ma foi, yes ; you heard my question ?” 

“ Your majesty asked, I think, in what manner, and when, 
Sylla narrowly escaped death ?” 

“ Just so — can you answer me, cardinal ?” 

“ Nothing more easy, sire.” 

“ So much the better.” 

“ Sylla, who had killed so many men, never risked his life but 
in combats ; did your majesty mean in one of those ?” 

“ Yes ; in one in which I think I recollect he was very near 
death. Open a Plutarch, cardinal ; there should be one there 
translated by Amyot, and read me the passage where he escaped 
the javelins of his enemies, thanks to the swiftness of his white 
horse.” 

“ Sire, there is no need of opening Plutarch ; the event took 
place in the combat with Telescrius the Samnite, and Lamponius 
the Lucanian.” 

“ You are so learned, my dear cardinal.” 

“ Your majesty is too good.” 

“ Now explain to me how this Roman lion, who was so cruel, 
was never annoyed by his enemies.” 

“Sire, I will reply to your majesty in the words of this same 
* Plutarch.” 

“ Go on, Joyeuse.” 

“ Carbon, the enemy of Sylla, said often, * 1 have to fight at 
once a lion and a fox who inhabit the soul of Sylia, but it is the 
fox who gives me most trouble.” 

“ Ah ! it was the fox ?” 

“ Plutarch says so sire.” 

“ And he is right, cardinal. But apropos of combats, have 
you any news of your brother ?” 

“ Of which brother, sire ? I have two.” 

“ Of the Dnc dArques, my friend.” 

7-— 2 


228 THE FORTY FIVE GUARDSMEN . 

“ Not yet, sire.” 

“ If M d’Anjou, who always plays the fox, will only play the 
lion a little for once.” 

The cardinal did not reply, so Henri, signing to him to re 
main, dressed himself sumptuously, and passed into the room 
where the court waited for him. He entered, looking full of 
good humour, kissed the hands of his wife and mother paid 
all sorts of compliments to the ladies, and even offered them 
sweetmeats. 

“ We were unquiet about your health, my son,” said Cathe- 
rine. 

“ You were wrong, madame ; I have never been better.” 

“ And to what happy influence do you owe this amelioration, 
my son ?” 

“To having laughed much, madame.” 

Every one looked astonished. 

“ Laughed ! you can laugh much, my son ; then you are very 
happy ?” 

“ It is true, madame ” 

“ And about what were you so much amused ?” 

“ I must tell you, mother, that yesterday I went to Vin 
cennes ” 

“ I knew it.” 

“ Oh ! you knew it ; well, my people told me, before my 
return, of an enemy’s army whose muskets shone on the 
road.” 

“ An enemy’s army on the road to Vincennes ?” 

“Yes, mother.” 

“ And where ?” 

“ In front of the Jacobins, near the house of our good 
cousin. ” 

“ Near Madame de Montpensier’s ?” 

“ Precisely so, near Bel-Esbat. I approached, bravely to 
give battle, and I perceived ” 

“ What sire ?” cried the queen, in alarm. 

“ Reassure yourself, madame. I perceived an entire priory 
of good monks, who presented arms to me with acclamations.” 

Every one laughed, and the king continued : 

“ Yes, you are right to laugh ; I have in France more than 
ten thousand monks, of whom I can make, if necessary, ten 
thousand musquetaires ; then I will create a Grand-Master of 
the Tonsured Musketeers, and give the place to you, cardinal.” 


IV II AT WAS PASSING AT THE LOUVRE. 


229 


“ Sire, I accept.” 

The ladies now, according to etiquette, rose, and, bowing to 
the king, retired. The queen followed with her ladies of 
honour. The queen-mother remained ; the king’s gaiety was a 
mystery that she wished to fathom. 

“ Cardinal,” said the king, “ what has become of your bro- 
ther, Du Bouchage?” 

“ I do not know, sire.” 

“ How ! you do not know ?” 

“ No ; I never see him now\” 

A grave, sad voice from the end of the room said, “ Here I 
am, sire.” 

“ Ah ! it is he,” cried Henri. “ Approach, comte ; ap- 
proach.” 

The young man obeyed. 

“ Mon Dieu !” cried the king, “ he is no longer a man, but a 
shade.” 

“ Sire, he works hard,” said the cardinal, stupefied himself at 
the change in his brother during the last week. He was as pale 
as wax, and looked thin and wan. 

“ Come here, young man,” said the king. “ Thanks, cardinal, 
for your quotation from Plutarch ; in a similar case I shall 
apply to you again.” 

The cardinal saw that Henri wished to be left alone with his 
brother, and took his leave. 

There only remained the queen-mother, D’Epernon, and Du 
Bouchage. The king beckoned to the latter, and said : 

“ Why do you hide thus behind the ladies ; do you not 
know it gives me pleasure to see you ?” 

“ Your kind words do me honour, sire,” said the young man, 
bowing. 

“ Then how is it that we never see you here now ?” 

“If your majesty has not seen me, it is because you have 
not deigned to cast an eye on the corner of the room. I 
am here every day regularly ; I never have failed, and neve r 
will, as long as I can stand upright ; it is a sacred duty to 
me.” 

“ And is it that that makes you so sad ?” 

“ Oh ! your majesty cannot think so ?” 

“No, for you and your brother love me, and I love you. 
Apropos, do you know that poor Anne has written to me from 
Dieppe ?” 


230 


THE FORTY- FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


“ I did not, sire.” 

“ Yes ; but you know he did not like going?” 

“ He confided to me his regrets at leaving Paris/’ 

“Yes ; but. do you know what he said? That there existed 
a man who would have regretted Paris much more ; and that if 
I gave you this order you would die.” 

“ Perhaps, sire.” 

# “He said yet more, for your brother talks fast when he is 
not sulky ; he said that if I had given such an order you would 
have disobeyed it.” 

“ Your majesty was right to place my death before my dis- 
obedience ; it would have been a greater grief to me to disobey 
than to die, and yet I should have disobeyed.” 

“ You are a little mad, I think, my poor comte,” said Henri. 

“ I am quite so, I believe.” 

“Then the case is serious.” 

Joyeuse sighed. 

“ What is it ? tell me.” 

Joyeuse tried to smile. “A great king like you, sire, would 
not care for such confidences.” 

“ Yes, Henri, yes ; tell me. It will amuse me,” said the 
king. 

“ Sire, you deceive yourself ; there is nothing in my grief 
that could amuse a noble heart like yours.” 

The king took the young man’s hand. “ Do not be angry, 
Du Bouchage,” said he , “ you know that your king also has 
known the griefs of an unrequited love.” 

“ I know it, sire, formerly.” 

“Therefore, I feel for your sufferings.” 

“ Your majesty is too good.” 

“ Not so ; but when I suffered what you suffer, no one could 
aid me, because no one was more powerful than myself, whereas 
I can aid you.” 

“Sire?” 

“ And, consequently, hope soon for an end of your sorrows.” 

The young man shook his head. 

“ Du Bouchage, you shall be happy, or I am no longer King 
of France !” cried Henri. 

“ Happy ! alas, sire, it is impossible,” said the young man 
with a bitter smile. 

“ And why so ?” 

“ Because my happiness is not of this world.” 


WHAT WAS PASSING AT THE LOUVRE . 


251 


“ Henri, your brother, when he went, recommended you to 
my friendship 1 wish, since you consult neither the expeii- 
ence of your father, nor the wisdom of your brother the car- 
dinal, to be an elder brother to you. Come, be confiding, and 
tell me all. I assure you, Du Bouchage, that for everything 
except death my power and love shall find >ou a remedy.” 

“ Sire,” replied the young man, falling at the king’s feet, “ do 
not confound me by the expression of a goodness to which 
cannot reply. My misfortune is without remedy, for it is that 
which makes my only happiness.” 

“ Du Bouchage, you are mad ; you will kill yourself with 
fancies.” 

“ I know it well, sire.” 

“ But,” cried the king, impatiently, “ is it a marriage you 
wish for ?” 

“ Sire, my wish is to inspire love. You see that the whole 
world is powerless to aid me in this ; I alone can obtain it for 
myself/’ 

“ Then why despair ?” 

“ Because I feel that I shall never inspire it.” 

“ Try, try, my child ; you are young and rich. Where is the 
woman that can resist at once beauty, youth and wealth ? 
There are none, Du Bouchage.” 

“ Sire, your goodness is great ” 

“ If you wish to be discreet, and tell me nothing, do so ; I 
will find out, and then act. You know what I have done for 
your brother, I will do as much for you ; a hundred thousand 
crowns shall not stop me.” 

Du Bouchage seized the king’s hand, and pressed his lips 
to it. 

“ May your majesty ask one day for my blood, and I will 
shed it to the last drop to show you how grateful I am for the 
protection that I refuse !” 

Henri III. turned on his heel angrily. 

“ Really,” said he, “these Joyeusesare more obstinate than 
a Valois. Here is one who will bring me every day his long 
face and eyes circled with black; that will be delightful.” 

u Oh ! sire, I will smile so, when I am here, that every one 
shall think me the happiest of men.” 

“ Yes, but I shall know the contrary, and that will sadden me.” 

“ Does your majesty permit me to retire ?” asked Du 
Bouchage. 


THE FORTY- FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


*y- 

“ Go, my child, and try to be a man.” 

When he was gone the king approached D’Epernon, and 
said,— 

“ Lavalette, have money distributed this evening to the 
Forty-five, and give them holiday for a night and a day to 
amuse themselves. By the mass ! they saved me like Sylla’s 
white horse.” 

“ Saved ?” said Catherine 

“Yes, mother.” 

“ From what ?” 

“ Ah ! ask D’Epernon.” 

“ I ask you, my son.” 

“Well, madame, our dear cousin, the sister of your good 
friend M. de Guise — oh ! do not deny it ; you know he is your 
good friend — laid an ambush for me.” 

“ An ambush !” 

“ Yes, madame, and I narrowly escaped imprisonment or 
assassination.” 

“ By M. de Guise ?” 

“ You do not believe it ?” 

“I confess I do not.” 

“ D’Epernon, my friend, relate the adventure to my mother. 
If I go on speaking, and she goes on shrugging her shoulders, 
I shall get angry, and that does not suit my health. Adieu, 
madame ; cherish M. de Guise as much as you please, but I 
would advise them not to forget Salcede.” 


CHAPTER LV. 

RED PLUME AND WHITE PLUME. 

It was eight in the evening, and the house of Robert Briquet, 
solitary and sad-looking, formed a worthy companion to that 
mysterious house of which we have already spoken to our 
readers. One might have thought that these two houses were 
yawning in each other’s face. Not far from there the noise of 
brass was heard, mingled with confused voices, vague murmurs, 
and squeaks. 

It was probably this noise that attracted a young and hand- 



Henri du Bouchage 






RED PLUME AND WHITE PLUME . 


<233 


some cavalier, with a violet cap, red plume, and grey mantle, 
who, after stopping for some minutes to hear this noise, went 
on slowly and pensively towards the house of Robert Briquet. 
Now this noise of brass was that of saucepans; these vague 
murmurs, those of pots boiling on fires and spits turned by dogs ; 
those cries, those of M. Fournichon, host of the “ Brave Che- 
valier,” and of Madame Fournichon, who was preparing her 
rooms. When the young man with the violet hat had well 
looked at the fire, inhaled the smell of the fowls, and peeped 
through the curtains, he went away, then returned to recom- 
mence his examinations. He continued to walk up and down, but 
never passed Robert Briquet’s house, which seemed to be the 
limit of his walk. Each time that he arrived at this limit he found 
there, like a sentinel, a young man about his own age, with a 
black cap, a white plume, and a violet cloak, who, with frowning 
brow and his hand on his sword, seemed to say, “ Thou shalt 
go no further.” But the other took twenty turns without ob- 
serving this, so preoccupied was he. Certainly he saw a man 
walking up and down like himself; but, as he was too well 
dressed to be a robber, he never thought of disquieting him- 
self about him. But the other, on the contrary, looked more 
and more black at each return of the red plume, till at last 
it attracted his attention, and he began to think that his 
presence there must be annoying to the other > and wonder- 
ing for what reason, he looked first at Briquet’s house, then 
at the one opposite, and, seeing nothing, turned round and 
recommenced his walk from west to east, while the other 
walked from east to west. This continued for about five 
minutes, until, as they once again came face to face, the young 
man in the white plume walked straight up against the other, 
who, taken unawares, with difficulty saved himself from falling. 

“ Monsieur,” cried he, “ are you mad, or do you mean to in- 
sult me ?” 

“ Monsieur, I wish to make you understand that you annoy 
me much. It seems to me that you might have seen that with- 
out my telling you.” 

“ Not at all, monsieur ; I never see what I do not wish to 
see.” 

“ There are, however, certain things which would attract your 
attention, I hope, if they shone before your eyes ;” and he drew 
his sword as he spoke, which glittered in the moonlight. 

The red plume said quietly, “ One would think, monsieur, 


234 


THE FORTY- FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


that you had never drawn a sword before, you are in such a 
hurry to attack one who does not attack you.” 

“ But who will defend himself, I hope.” 

“ Why so ?” replied the other, smiling. “ And what right 
have you to prevent me from walking in the street ?” 

“ Why do you walk in this street ?” 

“ Parbleu ! because it pleases me.” 

“ Ah ! it pleases you.” 

“ Doubtless ; are you not also walking here ? Have you a 
licence from the king to keep to yourself the Rue de Bussy ?” 

“ What is that to you ?” 

“ A great deal, for I am a faithful subject of the king’s, and 
would not disobey him.” 

“ Ah ! you laugh !” 

“And you threaten.” 

“ Heaven and earth ! I tell you, you annoy me, monsieur, 
and that if you do not go away willingly I will make you.” 

“ Oh ! oh ! we shall see that.” 

“Yes, we shall see.” 

“ Monsieur, I have particular business here. Now, if you 
will have it, I will cross swords with you, but I will not go 
away.” 

“ Monsieur, I am Comte Henri du Bouchage, brother of the 
Due de Joyeuse. Once more, will you yield me the place, and 
go away ?” 

“ Monsieur,” replied the other, “ I am the Vicomte Ernanton 
de Carmainges. You do not annoy me at all, and I do not 
ask you to go away.” 

Du Bouchage reflected a moment, and then put his sword back 
in its sheath. 

“ Excuse me, monsieur,” said he ; “ I am half mad, being in 
love.” 

“ And I also am in love, but I do not think myself mad for 
that.” 

Henri grew pale. 

“You are in love 1” said he. 

“ Yes, monsieur.” 

“ And you confess it ?” 

“ Is it a crime ?” 

“ But with some one in this street ?” 

“ Yes, for the present.” 

“ In heaven’s name tell me who it is 1” 


RED PLUME AXD WHITE PLUME. 


235 


“ Ah ! M. du Bouchage, you have not reflected on what you 
are asking me ; you know a gentleman cannot reveal a secret, 
of which only half belongs to him.” 

“It is true ; pardon, M. de Carmainges ; but, in truth, there 
is no one so unhappy as I am under heaven.” 

There was so much real grief and eloquent despair in these 
words, that Ernanton was profoundly touched. 

“Oh ! mon Dieu ! I understand,” said he; “you fear that 
we are rivals.” 

“ I do.” 

“ Well ; monsieur, I will be frank.” 

Joyeuse grew pale again. 

“ I,” continued Ernanton, “ have a rendezvous.” 

“ A rendezvous ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“In this street ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Written ?” 

“ Yes , in very good writing.” 

“ A woman’s ?” 

“ No ; a man’s.” 

“ What do you mean ?” 

“ What I say. I have an invitation to a rendezvous with a 
woman, written by a man ; it seems she has a secretary.” 

“ Ah ! go on, monsieur.” 

“ I cannot refuse you, monsieur. I will tell you the tenor of 
the note.” 

“ I listen.” 

“ You will see if it is like yours.” 

“Oh ! monsieur, I have no rendezvous — no note.” 

Ernanton than drew out a little paper. “ Here is the note, 
monsieur,” said he ; “ it would be difficult to read it to you by 
this obscure light ; but it is short, and I know it by heart, if 
you will trust to me.” 

“Oh ! entirely.” 

“ This is it, then : ‘ M. Ernanton, my secretary is charged by 
me to tell you that I have a great desire to talk with you for an 
hour; your merit has touched me.’ I pass over another phrase 
still more flattering.” 

“ Then you are waited for ?” 

“ No ; I wait, as you see.” 

“ Are they to open the door to you ?’’ 


236 


THE FORTY- FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


“ No ; to whistle three times from the window.” 

Henri, trembling all over, placed one hand on Ernanton’s 
arm, and with the other pointed to the opposite house. 

“ From there ?” said he. 

“ Oh ! no; from there,” said Ernanton, pointing to the “Brave 
Chevalier.” 

Henri uttered a cry of joy. “ Oh ! a thousand thanks, mon- 
sieur,” said he ; “ pardon my incivility — my folly. Alas ! you 
know, for a man who really loves, there exists but one woman, 
and, seeing you always return to this house, I believed that it 
was here you were waited for.” 

“I have nothing to pardon, monsieur ; for really I half thought 
you had come on the same errand as myself.” 

“ And you had the incredible patience to say nothing ! Ah ! 
you do not love, you do not love.” 

“ Ma foi ! I have no great rights as yet ; and these great 
ladies are so capricious, and would, perhaps, enjoy playing me 
a trick.” 

“ Oh ! M. de Carmainges, you do not love as I do ; and 
yet ” 

“ Yet what ?” 

“ You are more happy.” 

“ Ah ! are they cruel in that house ?” 

“ M. de Carmainges, for three months I have loved like a 
madman her who lives there, and I have not yet had the happi- 
ness of hearing the sound of her voice.” 

“ Diable ! you are not far advanced. But stay.” 

“ What is it ?” 

“ Did not some one whistle ?” 

“ Indeed, I think I heard something.” 

A second whistle was now distinctly heard. 

“ M. le Comte,” said Ernanton, “ you will excuse me for 
taking leave, but I believe that is my signal.” 

A third whistle sounded. 

“ Go, monsieur,” said Joyeuse ; “and good luck to you.” 

Ernanton made off quickly, while Joyeuse began to walk 
back more gloomily than ever. 

“ Now for my accustomed task,” said he ; “ let me knock as 
usual at this cursed door which never opens to me.” 


7 ME DOOR OPENS . 


237 


CHAPTER LVI. 

THE DOOR OPENS. 

On arriving at the door ot the house, poor Henri was seized by 
his usual hesitation. 

“ Courage,” said he to himself. 

But, before knocking, he looked once more behind him, 
and saw the bright light shining through the windows of the 
hotel. 

‘ There,” said he, “ enter for love and joy, people who are 
invited almost without desiring ; why have I not a tranquil and 
careless heart ? Perhaps I might enter there also, instead of 
vainly trying here.” 

Ten o’clock struck. Henri lifted the knocker, and struck 
once, then again. 

“ There,” said he, listening, “ there is the inner door opening, 
the stairs creaking, the sound of steps approaching, always the 
same thing.” 

And he knocked again. 

“ There,” said he, “ he peeps through the trellis-work, sees 
my pale face, and goes away, always without opening. Adieu, 
cruel house, until to-morrow.” 

And he turned to go ; but scarcely had he taken two steps, 
when the key turned in the lock, and, to his profound surprise, 
the door opened, and a man stood bowing on the threshold. 
It was the same whom he had seen before. 

“ Good-evening, monsieur,” said he, in a harsh voice, but 
whose sound appeared to Du Bouchage sweeter than the song 
of birds. 

Henri joined his hands and trembled so, that the servant put 
out a hand to save him falling, with a visible expression of re- 
spectful pity. 

“ Come, monsieur,” said he, “ here I am ; explain to me, I 
beg, what you want.” 

“ I have loved so much,” replied the young man ; “my heart 
has beat so fast, that I hardly know if it still beats.” 

“Will it please you, monsieur, to sit down and talk to 
me ?” 

“ Oh yes !” 

“ Speak then, monsieur, and tell me what you desire.” 


238 THE FORTY -FIVE GUARDSMEN . 

“ My friend, you already know. Many times, you know, I 
have waited for you and surprised you at the turn of a street, 
and have offered you gold enough to enrich you, had you been 
the greediest of men ; at other times I have threatened you, 
but you have never listened to me, and have always seen me 
suffer without seeming to pity me. To-day you tell me to 
speak — to express my wishes ; what then has happened, mon 
Dieu ?” 

The servant sighed. He had evidently a pitying heart under 
a rough covering. Henri heard this sigh, and it encouraged 
him. 

“ You know,” continued he, “ that I love, and how I love ; 
you have seen me pursue a woman and discover her, in spite of 
her efforts to fly me ; but never in my greatest grief has a bitter 
word escaped me, or have I given heed to those violent thoughts 
which are born of despair and the fire of youth.” 

“ It is true, monsieur ; and in this my mistress renders you 
full justice.” 

“Could I not,” continued Henri, “when you refused me 
admittance, have forced the door, as is done every day by 
some lad, tipsy, or in love ? Then, if but for a minute, I 
should have seen this inexorable woman, and have spoken to 
her.” 

“ It is true.” 

“ And,” continued the young count, sadly, “ I am something 
in this world ; my name is great as well as my fortune, the 
king himself protects me ; just now he begged me to confide 
to him my griefs and to apply to him for aid.” 

“ Ah !” said the servant, anxiously. 

“ I would not do it,” continued Joyeuse; “no, no, I refused 
all, to come and pray at this door with clasped hands — a door 
which never yet opened to me.” 

“ M. le Comte, you have indeed a noble heart, and worthy 
to be loved. ’ 

“ Well, then, he whom you call worthy, to what do you con- 
demn him? Every morning my page brings a letter; it is 
refused. Every evening I knock myself at the door, and I am 
•disregarded. You let me suffer, despair, die in the street, with- 
out having the compassion for me that you would have for a 
dog that howled. Ah ! this woman has no woman’s heart, she 
does not love me. Well ! one can no more tell one’s heart to 
love than not to love. But you may pity the unfortunate who 


THE DOOR OPER r S. 


239 


suffers, and give him a word of consolation — reach out your 
hand to save him from falling ; but, no, this woman cares not 
for my sufferings. Why does she not kill me, either with a re- 
fusal from her mouth, or some blow from a poniard ? Dead, I 
should suffer no more.’ 

“ M. le Comte/’ replied the man, “ the lady whom you accuse 
is, believe me, far from having the hard, insensible heart you 
think ; she has seen you, and understood what you suffer, and 
feels for you the warmest sympathy.” 

“ Oh ! compassion, compassion !” cried the young man ; 
“ but may that heart of which you boast some day know love — 
love such as I feel, and may they offer her compassion in ex- 
change ; I shall be well avenged.” 

“ M. le Comte, not to reply to love is no reason for never 
having loved. This woman has perhaps felt the passion more 
than ever you will — has perhaps loved as you can never 
love.” 

“ When one loves like that, one loves for ever,” cried Henri, 
raising his eyes to heaven. 

“ Did I tell you that she loved no more ?” 

Henri uttered a doleful cry. 

“ She loves !” cried he. “ Ah ! mon Dieu !” 

“ Yes, she loves ; but be not jealous of the man she loves, 
M. le Comte, for he is no more of this world. My mistress is 
a widow.” 

These words restored hope and life to the young man. 

“ Oh !” cried he, “she is a widow, and recently; the source 
of her tears will dry up in time. She is a widow, then she 
loves no one, or only a shadow — a name. Ah ! she will love 
me. Oh ! mon Dieu, all great griefs are calmed by time. 
When the widow of Mausole, who had sworn an eternal grief 
at her husband's tomb, had exhausted her tears, she was cured. 
Regrets are a malady, from which every one who survives comes 
out as strong as before.” 

The servant shook his head. 

“ This lady, M. le Comte, has also sworn eternal fidelity to 
death ; but I know her, and she will keep her word better than 
the forgetful woman of whom you speak.” 

“ I will wait ten years, if necessary ; since she lives, I may 
hope.” 

“ Oh ! young man, do not reckon thus. She has lived, you 
say ; yes, so she has, not a month, or a year, but seven years. 


240 


TIIE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


You hope that she will console herself ; never, M. le Comte, 
never. I swear it to you — I, who was but the servant of him 
who is dead, and yet I shall never be consoled.” 

“ This man so much regretted, this husband ” 

“ It was not her husband, it was her lover, M. le Comte, and 
a woman like her whom you unluckily love has but one lover 
in her life.” 

“ My friend,” cried Joyeuse, “ intercede for me.” 

“ I ! Listen, M. le Comte. Had I believed you capable of 
using violence towards my mistress, I would have killed you 
long ago with my own hand. If, on the contrary, I could have 
believed that she would love you, I think I should have killed 
her. Now, M. le Comte, I have said what I wished to say ; do 
not seek to make me say more, for, on my honour — and although 
not a nobleman, my honour is worth something — I have told 
you all I can.” 

Henri rose. 

“ I thank you,” said he, “ for having had compassion on my 
misfortunes; now I have decided.” 

“ Then you will be calmer for the future. M. le Comte, you 
will go away, and leave us to ourselves?” 

“ Yes, be easy ; I will go away, and for ever.” 

“ You mean to die ?” 

“ Why not ? I cannot live without her.” 

“ M. le Comte, believe me, it is bad to die by your own 
hand.” 

“ Therefore I shall not choose that death ; but there is, for a 
young man like me, a death which has always been reckoned 
the best — that received in defending your king and country.” 

“ If you suffer beyond your strength, if you owe nothing to 
those who survive you, if death on the field of battle is offered 
to you, die, M. le Comte ; I should have done so long ago, had 
I not been condemned to live.” 

“ Adieu, and thank you,” replied Joyeuse. 

“ Au revoir in another world.” 

And he went away rap ; dly, throwing a heavy purse of gold at 
the feet of the servant. 


H01V A CHEAT LADY LOVED IN 1586. 


241 


CHAPTER EVIL 

HOW A GREAT LADY LOVED IN THE YEAR 1 5 86 . 

The whistles which Ernanton had heard were really his signal. 
Thus, when the young man reached the door, he found Dame 
Fournichon on the threshold waiting for her customers with a 
smile, which made her resemble a mythological goddess painted 
by a Flemish painter, and in her large white hands she held a 
golden crown, which another hand, whiter and more delicate, 
had slipped in, in passing. 

She stood before the door, so as to bar Ernanton’s passage. 

“ What do you Avant ?” said she to him. 

“ Were not three whistles given from one of those windows 
just now ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Well, they were to summon me.” 

“ You ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ On your honour ?” 

“As a gentleman, Dame Fournichon.” 

“ Enter, then, monsieur, enter.” 

And happy at having a client after her own heart, fit for the 
“Rose-tree of love/’ the hostess conducted Ernanton upthestairs 
herself. A little door, vulgarly painted, gave access to a sort of 
ante-chamber, which led to a room, furnished, decorated, and 
carpeted with rather more luxury than might have been expected 
in this remote corner of Paris ; but this was Madame Fourni- 
chon’s favourite room, and she had exerted all her taste to em- 
bellish it. 

When the young man entered the ante-chamber, he smelt a 
strong aromatic odour, the work, doubtless, of some susceptible 
person, who had thus tried to overcome the smell of cooking 
exhaled from the kitchen. 

Ernanton, after opening the door, stopped for an instant to 
contemplate one of those elegant female figures which must 
always command attention, if not love. Reposing on cushions 
enveloped in silk and velvet, this lady was occupied in burning 
in the candle the end of a little stick of aloes, over which she 
bent so as to inhale the full perfume. By the manner in which 
she threw the branch in the fire, and pulled her hood over her 

16 


242 THE FORTY- FIVE GUARDSMEN. 

masked face, Ernanton perceived that she had heard him enter, 
but she did not turn. 

“ Madame,” said the young man, “you sent for your humble 
servant — here he is.” 

“Ah! very well,” said the lady; “sit down, I beg, M. 
Ernanton.” 

“ Pardon, madame, but before anything I must thank you for 
the honour that you do me.” 

“ Ah ! that is civil, and you are right ; but I presume you do 
not know whom you are thanking, M. de Carmainges.” 

“ Madame, you have your face hidden by a mask and your 
hands by gloves ; 1 cannot then recognise you — I can but 
guess.” 

“ And you guess who I am ?” 

“ Her whom my heart desires, whom my imagination paints, 
young, beautiful, powerful, and rich ; too rich and too powerful 
for me to be able to believe that what has happened to me is 
real, and that I am not dreaming.” 

“ Had you any trouble to enter here ?” asked the lady, with- 
out replying directly to the words which had escaped from the 
full heart of Ernanton. 

“ No, madame ; the admittance was easier than I could have 
thought.” 

“ Yes, all is easy for a man ; it is so different for a woman. 
What were you saying before, monsieur ?” added she, carelessly, 
and pulling off her glove to show a beautiful hand, at once plump 
and taper. 

“ I said, madame, that without having seen your face, I know 
who you are, and without fear of making a mistake, may say 
that I love you.” 

“ Then you are sure that I am her whom you expected to find 
here ?” 

“ My heart tells me so.” 

“ Then you know me ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Really ! you, a provincial, only just arrived, you already 
know the women of Paris ?” 

“ In all Paris, madame, I know but one.” 

“ And that is me ?” 

“ I believe so.” 

“ By what do you recognise me ?” 

“ By your voice, your grace, and your beauty.” 


HOW A GREAT LADY LOVED IN 15S6. 


243 


“ My voice, perhaps ; I cannot disguise it. My grace ; I 
may appropriate the compliment ; but as for my beauty, it is 
veiled.” 

“ It was less so, madame, on the day when, to bring you into 
Paris, I held you so near to me, that your breast touched my 
shoulders, and I felt your breath on my neck.” 

“ Then, on the receipt of my letter, you guessed that it came 
from me ?” 

“ Oh ! no, madame, not for a moment ; I believed I was 
the subject of some joke, or the victim of some error, and it 
is only during the last few minutes that, seeing you, touching 
you ” and he tried to take her hand, but she withdrew it. 

‘ Enough !” said the lady ; “ the fact is, that I have committed 
a great folly.” 

“In what, madame ?” 

“ In what? You say that you know me, and then ask.” 

“ Oh! it is true, madame, that I am very insignificant and 
obscure near your highness.” 

“ Mon Dieu ! monsieur, pray be silent. Have you no 
sense ?” 

“ What have I done ?” cried Ernanton, frightened. 

“ You see me in a mask, and if I wear one, it is for disguise, 
and yet you call me your highness.” 

“ Ah ! pardon me, madame,” said Ernanton, “ but I believed 
in the discretion of these walls.” 

“ It appears you are credulous.” 

“ Alas ! madame, I am in love.” 

“ And you are convinced that I reciprocate this love ?” 

Ernanton rose piqued. 

“No, madame,” replied he. 

“ Then what do you believe ?” 

“ I believe that you have something important to say to me, 
and that, not wishing to receive me at your Hotel, or at Bei- 
Esbat, you preferred this isolated spot.” 

“ You thought that ?” 

“Yes.” 

“And what do you think I could have to say to you?” asked 
the lady, rather anxiously. 

“ How can I tell ? Perhaps something about M. de 
Mayenne.” 

“ Had you not already told me all you knew of him ?* 

“ Perhaps, then, some question about last night’s event.” 

16 — 2 


2^4 THE FORTY FIVE GUARDSMEN*. 

“ What event ? of what do you speak ?” asked the lady, visibly 
tgitated. 

“ Of the panic experienced by M. d’Epernon and the arrest 
f the Lorraine gentlemen.” 

“ They arrested them ?” 

“Yes, those who were found on the road to Vincennes.” 

“ Which is also the road to Soissons, where M. de Guise 
holds his garrison. Ah ! M. Ernanton, you, who belong to the 
court, can tell me why they arrested these gentlemen.” 

“ I belong to the court ?” 

“ Certainly.” 

“ You know that, madame ?” 

“ Ah ! to find out your address, we were forced to make 
inquiries. But what resulted from all this ?” 

“Nothing, madame, to my knowledge.” 

“Then why did you think I should wish to speak of it?” 

Ci I am wrong again, madame. ” 

“ From what place are you, monsieur ?” 

“ From Agen.” 

“ What, you are a Gascon ! and yet are not vain enough to 
suppose that when I saw you at the Porte St. Antoine, on the 
day of Salcede’s execution, I liked your looks.” 

Ernanton reddened, and looked confused. 

The lady went on. “ That I met you in the street, and found 
you handsome.” 

Ernanton grew scarlet. 

“ That, afterwards, when you brought me a message from my 
brother, I liked you.” 

“ Madame, I never thought so, I protest.” 

“ Then you were wrong,” said the lady, turning on him two 
eyes which flashed through her mask. 

Ernanton clasped his hands. 

“ Madame, are you mocking me ?” cried he. 

“ Ma foi ! no. The truth is, that you pleased me.” 

“ Mon Dieu !” 

“ But you yourself dared to declare your love to me.” 

“ But then I did not know who you were, madame ; and now 
that I do know, I humbly ask for pardon.” 

“ Oh !” cried the lady, say all you think, or I shall regret 
having come.” 

Ernanton fell on his knees. 

“ Speak, madame, speak, that I may be sure this is not all a 
dream, and perhaps I shall dare to answer.” 


HOW A GREAT LADY LOVED IN 1586. 


245 


“ So be it. Here are my projects for you,” said the lady, 
gently pushing Ernanton back, while she arranged the folds of 
her dress ; “ I fancy you, but I do not yet know you. I am 
not in the habit of resisting my fancies ; but I never commit 
follies. Had we been equals, I should have received you at 
my house, and studied you before I hinted at my feelings ; but 
as that was impossible, I was driven to this interview ; now you 
know what to do ; be worthy of me, it is all I ask.” 

Ernanton exhausted himself in protestations. 

“Oh ! less warmth, M. de Carmainges, I beg; it is not worth 
while,” replied she, carelessly. “ Perhaps it was only your 
name that pleased me ; perhaps it is a caprice, and will pass 
away. However, do not think yourself too far from perfection, 
and begin to despair. I hate perfect people, but I adore 
devoted ones ; remember that.” 

Ernanton was beside himself. This haughty language and 
proud superiority, yet this frank declaration and abandon, terri- 
fied and yet delighted him. He seated himself near the proud 
and beautiful lady, and then tried to pass his arm behind the 
cushions on which she reclined. 

“ Monsieur,” said she, “ it appears you have heard, but not 
understood me. No familiarity, if you please ; let us each 
remain in our places. Some day I shall give you the right to 
call me yours ; but this right you have not yet.” 

Ernanton rose, pale and angry. 

“ Excuse me, madame,”said he, “it seems I commit nothing 
but follies here ; I am not yet accustomed to the habits of 
I aris. Among us in the provinces, 200 leagues off, when a 
woman says 4 1 love/ she loves, and does not hold herself aloof, 
or take pretexts for humiliating the man at her feet. It is your 
custom as a Parisian, and your right as a princess. I accept it, 
therefore, only I have not been accustomed to it. The habit, 
doubtless, will come in time.” 

“ Ah ! you are angry, I believe,” said the duchess, haughtily. 

“ I am, madame, but it is against myself ; for I have for you, 
madame, not a passing caprice, but a real love. It is your 
heart I seek to obtain, and therefore I am angry with myself 
for having compromised the respect that I owe you, and which 
I will only change into love when you command me. From 
this moment, madame, I await your orders.” 

“ Come, come, do not exaggerate, M. de Carmainges ; now 
you are all ice, after being all flame.” 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


246 

“ It seems to me, however, madame ” 

“ A truce to politeness ; I do not wish to play the princess. 
Here is my hand, take it ; it is that of a simple woman.” 

Ernanton took this beautiful hand respectfully. 

“ Well, you do not kiss it !” cried the duchess ; “ are you 
mad, or have you sworn to put me in a passion ?” 

“ But just now ” 

“Just now I drew it away, while now I give it to you.” 

Ernanton kissed the hand, which was then withdrawn. 

“Another lesson,” said he. “Assuredly you will end by 
killing my passion. I may adore you on my knees ; but I 
should have neither love nor confidence for you.” 

“ Oh ! I do not wish that, for you would be a sad lover, and 
it is not so that I like them. No, remain natural, be yourself, 
M. Ernanton, and nothing else. I have caprices. Oh ! mon 
Dieu, you told me I was beautiful, and all beautiful women have 
them. Do not fear me ; and when I say to the too impetuous 
Ernanton, ‘ Calm yourself,’ let him consult my eyes and not my 
voice.” 

At these words she rose. 

It was time, for the young man seized her in his arms, and 
his lips touched her mask ; but through this mask her eyes 
darted such a flaming glance that he drew back. 

“ Well,” said she, “ we shall meet again. Decidedly you 
please me, M. de Carmainges.” 

Ernanton bowed. 

“ When are you free ?” asked she. 

“Alas! very rarely, madame.” 

“ Ah ! your service is fatiguing, is it not ?” 

“ What service ?” 

“ That which you perform near the king. Are you not some 
kind of guard to his majesty ?” 

“ I form part of a body of gentlemen, madame.” 

“ That is what I mean. They are all Gascons, are they not?” 

“ Yes, madame.” 

“ How many are there ? I forget.” 

“ Forty-five.” 

“ What a singular number !” 

“I believe it was chance.” 

“And these forty-five gentlemen never quit the king, you 
say ?” 

“ I did not say so, madame.” 


247 


HOW A GREAT LADY LOVED IN 1586. 

“ Ah ! I thought you did ; at least, you said you had very 
little liberty.” 

“ It is true, I have very little ; because by day we are on ser- 
vice near the king, and at night we stay at the Louvre.” 

“In the evening?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Every evening ?” 

“ Nearly.” 

“What would have happened then this evening, if your dm^ 
had kept you ? I, who waited for you, and should have been 
ignorant of the cause of your absence, should Lave thought my 
advances despised.” 

“ Ah ! madame, to see you I will risk all, I swear to you.” 

“ It would be useless and absurd ; I do not wish it ” 

“ But then ” 

“ Do your duty ; I will arrange, who am free and mistress of 
my time.” 

“ What goodness, madame !” 

“ But you have not explained to me,” said the duchess, with 
her insinuating smile, “ how you happened to be free this even- 
ing, and how you came.” 

“ This evening, madame, I was thinking of asking permission 
of De Loignac, our captain, who is very kind to me, when the 
order came to give a night’s holiday to the Forty-five.” 

“ And on what account was this leave given ?” 

“ As recompense, I believe, madame, for a somewhat fatiguing 
service yesterday at Vincennes.” 

“ Ah ! very well.” 

“Therefore to this circumstance I owe the pleasure of seeing 
you to-night at my ease.” 

“ Well ! listen, Carmainges,” said the duchess, with a gentle 
familiarity which filled the heart of the young man with joy; 
“ this is what yOu must do, whenever you think you shall be at 
liberty — send a note here to the hostess, and every day I will send 
a man to inquire.” 

“Oh ! mon Dieu ! madame, you are too good !” 

“ What is that noise ?” said the duchess, laying her hand on 
his arm. 

Indeed, a noise of spurs, of voices, of doors shutting, and joy- 
ous exclamations, came from the room below, like the echo of 
an invasion. Ernanton looked out. 

“It is my companions,” said he, “who have come here to 
spend their holiday.” 


248 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


‘‘But by what chance? just where we are.” 

“ Because it is just here, madame, that we each had a ren- 
dezvous ori our arrival, and on the happy day of their entry in 
Paris my friends conceived an affection for the wine and the 
cooking of M. Fournichon. But you, how did you come to 
choose this place ?” 

“ I chose, and you will easily understand that, the most de- 
serted part of Paris, a place near the river, where no one was 
likely to recognise me, or suspect that I could come ; but, mon 
Dieu ! how noisy your companions are.” 

Indeed, the noise was becoming a perfect storm, but all at 
once they heard a sound of footsteps on the little staircase which 
led to their room, and Madame Fournichon’s voice, crying, from 
below, “ M. de St. Maline, M. de St. Maline !” 

“ Well !” replied the young man. 

“ Do not go up there, I beg !” 

“And why not, dear Madame Fournichon? is not all the 
house ours to-night ?” 

“Not the turrets.” 

“ Bah ! they are part of the house,” cried five or six voices. 

“No, they are not; they are private, do not disturb my 
lodgers.” 

“Do not disturb me, Madame Fourmcnon,” replied St. 
Maline. 

“ For pity’s sake !” cried Madame Fournichon. 

“ Madame,” replied he, “ it is midnight, and at nine all fires 
ought to be extinguished ; there is a fire now in your turret, and 
I must see what disobedient subject is transgressing the kings 
edicts.” 

And St. Maline continued to advance, followed by several 
others. 

“Mon Dieu ! M. de Carmainges,” cried the duchess, “will 
those people dare to enter here ?” 

“ I am here, madame ; have no fear.” 

“ Oh ! they are forcing the doors,” cried she 

Indeed, St. Maline rushed so furiously against the door, that, 
being very slight, it was at once broken open. 


ST. MAL1XE EXTRA'S IXTO THE TURRET. 


M9 


CHAPTER LVIII. 

HOW ST. MALINE ENTERED INTO THE TURRET, AND WHAT 
FOLLOWED. 

Ernanton’s first thought when he saw the door of the ante- 
chamber fly open was to blow out the light. 

“ M. de St. Maline,” cried the hostess, “ I warn you that 
the persons whom you are troubling are your friends.” 

“ Well ! all the more reason to present our compliments to 
them,” cried Perducas de Pincornay, in a tipsy voice. 

“And what friends are they? We will see!” cried St. 
Maline. 

The good nosless, hoping to prevent a collision, glided among 
them, and whispered Ernanton’s name in St. Maline’s ear. 

“ Ernanton !” cried St. Maline, aloud, for whom this reve- 
lation was oil instead of water thrown on the fire, “ that is not 
possible.” 

“ And why so ?” 

“ Oh ! because Ernanton is a model of chastity, and a melange 
of all the virtues. No, you must be wrong, Madame Four- 
nichon ; it cannot be Ernanton who is shut in there.” 

And he approached the second door, to treat it as he had 
done the first, when it was opened, and Ernanton appeared on 
the threshold, with a face which did not announce that patience 
was one of the virtues which according to St. Maline, he 
possessed. 

“ By what right has M. de St. Maline broken down one door, 
and intends to break a second ?” said he. 

“Ah! it is he, really; it is Ernanton!” cried St. Maline. 
tl I recognise his voice ; but as to his person, devil take me if 
I can see it in this darkness.” 

“You do not reply to my question, monsieur,” said Ernanton. 

St. Maline began to laugh noisily, which reassured some of 
his comrades, who were thinking of retiring. 

“I spoke; did you not hear me, M. de St. Maline?” said 
Ernanton. 

“Yes, monsieur, perfectly.” 

“ Then what have you to say ?” 

“We wished to know, my dear friend, if it was you up 
here.” 


250 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


“ Well, monsieur, now you know it, leave me in peace . n 

“ Cap de Bious ! have you become an hermit ?” 

“ As for that, monsieur, permit me to leave you in doubt.” 

“ Ah ! bah !” cried St. Maline, trying to enter, “ are you really 
alone ? you have no light.” 

“ Gentlemen !” said Ernanton, “ I know that you are half 
drunk, and I forgive you ; but there is a limit even to the 
patience that one owes to men beside themselves ; your joke 
is over, do me the favour to retire.” 

“ Oh ! oh ! retire ! how you speak !” said St. Maline. 

“ I speak so as you may not be deceived in my wishes, and 1 
repeat, gentlemen, retire, I beg.” 

“Not before we have been admitted to the honour of 
saluting the person for whom you desert our company. M. de 
Montcrabeau,” continued he, “ go down and come back with a 
light.” 

“ M. de Montcrabeau,” cried Ernanton, “ if you do that, 
remember it will be a personal offence to me.” 

Montcrabeau hesitated. 

“Good,” replied St. Maline, “we have our oath, and M. de 
Carmainges is so strict that he will not infringe discipline ; we 
cannot draw our swords against each other ; therefore, a light, 
Montcrabeau, a light !” 

Montcrabeau descended, and in five minutes returned with a 
light, which he offered to St. Maline. 

“ No, no,” said he ; “ keep it ; I may, perhaps, want both 
hands.” 

And he made a step forward. 

“ I take you all to witness,” cried Ernanton, “ that I am in- 
sulted without reason, and that in consequence,” — and he drew 
his sword, — “ I will bury this sword in the breast of the first 
man who advances.” 

St. Maline, furious, was about to draw his sword also ; but 
before he had time to do so, the point of Ernanton’s was on 
his breast, and as he advanced a step, without Ernanton’s 
moving his arm, St. Maline felt the iron on his flesh, and drew 
back furious, but Ernanton followed him, keeping the sword 
against his breast. St. Maline grew pale ; if Ernanton had 
wished it, he could have pinned him to the wall, but he slowly 
withdrew his sword. 

“ You merit two deaths for your insolence,” said he, “but the 
oath of which you spoke restrains me, and I will touch you no 


ST. M A LINE ENTERS INTO THE TURRET . . 251 


inore ; let me pass. Come, madame, I answer for your free 
passage.’’ 

Then appeared a woman, whose head was covered by a hood, 
and her face by a mask, and who took Ernanton’s arm, trem- 
blingly. St. Maline stood by, stifling with rage at his merited 
punishment. He drew his dagger as Ernanton passed by him. 
Did he mean to strike Ernanton, or only to do what he did ? 
No one knew, but as they passed, his dagger cut through the 
silken hood of the duchess and severed the string of her mask, 
which fell to the ground. This movement was so rapid that 
in the half light no one saw or could prevent it. The duchess 
uttered a cry ; St. Maline picked up the mask and returned it 
to her, looking now full in her uncovered face. 

“ Ah !” cried he, in an insolent tone, “ it is the beautiful lady 
of the litter. Ernanton, you get on fast.” 

Ernanton stopped and half-drew his sword again ; but the 
duchess drew him on, saying, “ Come on, I beg you, M. Ernan- 
ton.” 

“We shall meet again, M. de St. Maline,” said Ernanton, 
“and you shall pay for this, with the rest.” 

And he went on without meeting with any further opposition, 
and conducted the duchess to her litter, which was guarded by 
two servants. Arrived there and feeling herself in safety, she 
pressed Ernanton’s hand, and said, “ M. Ernanton, after what 
has just passed, after the insult which, in spite of your courage, 
you could not defend me from, and which might probably be 
renewed, we can come here no more ; seek, I beg of you, some 
house in the neighbourhood to sell or to le ; before long you 
shall hear from me.” 

“ Must I now take leave of you, madame ?” said Ernanton, 
bowing in token of obedience to the flattering orders he had 
just received. 

“ Not yet, M. de Carmainges ; follow my litter as far as the 
new bridge, lest that wretch who recognised in me the lady of 
the litter, but did not know me for what I am should follow to 
find out my residence.” 

Ernanton obeyed, but no one watched them. When they 
arrived at the Pont Neuf, which then merited the name, as it 
was scarcely seven years since Ducerceau had built it, the 
duchess gave her hand to Ernanton, saying, “ Now go, mon- 
sieur.” 

“ May I dare to ask when I shall see you again, madame?” 


2 j2 


THE FORTY- FIVE GEAR DSM EH. 


“ That depends on the length of time which you take in 
executing my commission, and your haste will be a proof to me 
of your desire to see me again.” 

“ Oh, madame, I shall not be idle.” 

“ Well, then, go, Ernanton.” 

“ It is strange,” thought the young man, as he retraced his 
Steps ; “ I cannot doubt that she likes me, and yet she does not 
seem the least anxious as to whether or not I get killed by that 
brute of a St. Maline. But, poor woman, she was in great tiouble, 
and the fear of being compromised is, particularly with princesses, 
the strongest of all sentiments.” 

Ernanton, however, could not forget the insult he had received, 
and he returned straight to the hotel. He was naturally decided 
to infringe all orders and oaths, and to finish with St. Maline , he 
felt in the humour to fight ten men, if necessary. This resolution 
sparkled in his eyes when he reached the door of the “ Brave 
Chevalier.” Madame Fournichon, who expected his return with 
anxiety, was standing trembling in the doorway. At the sight of 
Ernanton she wiped her eyes, as if she had been crying, and throw- 
ing her arms round the young man’s neck, begged for his pardon, 
in spite of her husband’s representations that, as she had done no 
wrong, she had nothing to be pardoned for. Ernanton assured her 
that he did not blame her at all — that it was only her wine that 
was in fault. 

While this passed at the door, all the rest were at table, where 
they were warmly discussing the previous quarrel. Many frankly 
blamed St. Maline ; others abstained, seeing the frowning brow 
of their comrade. They did not attack with any less enthu- 
siasm the supper of M. Fournichon, but they discussed as they 
ate. 

“As for me,” said Hector de Bizan, “I know that M. de St. 
Maline was wrong, and that had I been Ernanton de Carmain- 
ges, M. de St. Maline would be at this moment stretched on the 
ground instead of sitting here.” 

St. Maline looked at him furiously. 

“ Oh, I mean what I say,” continued he ; “ and stay, there 
is some one at the door who appears to agree with me.” 

All turned at this, and saw Ernanton standing in the doorway, 
looking very pale. He descended from the step, as the statue 
of the commander from his pedestal, and walked straight up to 
St. Maline, firmly, but quietly. 

At this sight, several voices cried, “ Come here, Ernanton ; 
come this side, Carmainges ; there is room here.” 


ST. M A LINE ENTERS INTO THE TURRET. 253 

“ Thank you,” replied the young man ; “ but it is near M. de 
St. M aline that I wish to sit.” 

St. Maline rose, and all eyes were fixed on him. But as he 
rose, his face changed its expression. 

“ I will make room for you, monsieur,” said he, gently ; 
“ and in doing so address to you my frank and sincere apolo- 
gies for my stupid aggression just now ; I was drunk ; forgive 
me.” 

This declaration did not satisfy Ernanton ; but the cries of 
joy that proceeded from all the rest decided him to say no more, 
although a glance at St Maline showed him that he was not to 
be trusted. St. Maline’s glass was full, and he filled Ernanton’s. 

“ Peace ! peace !” cried all the voices. 

Carmainges profited by the noise, and leaning towards St 
Maline, with a smile on his lips, so that no one might suspect 
the sense of what he was saying, whispered : 

“ M. de St. Maline, this is the second time that you have 
insulted me without giving me satisfaction ; take care, for at the 
third offence I will kill you like a dog.” 

And the two mortal enemies touched glasses as though they 
had been the best friends. 


CHAPTER LIX. 

WHAT WAS PASSING IN THE MYSTERIOUS HOUSE. 

While the hotel of the “ Brave Chevalier,” the abode, appa- 
rently, of the most perfect concord, with closed doors and open 
cellars, showed through the openings of the shutters the light of 
its candles and the mirth of its guests, an unaccustomed move- 
ment took place in that mysterious house of which our readers 
have as yet only seen the outside. 

The servant was going from one room to another, carrying 
packages which he placed in a trunk. These preparations over, 
he loaded a pistol, examined his poniard, then suspended it, by 
the aid of a ring, to the chain which served him for a belt, to 
which he attached besides a bunch of keys and a book of 
prayers bound in black leather. 

While he was thus occupied, a step, light as that of a shadow 
came up the staircase, and a woman pale and phantom-like 


254 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDS MEM. 


under the folds of her white veil, appeared at the door, and a 
voice, sad and sweet as the song of a bird in the wood, said : 

“ Remy, are you ready ?” 

“ Yes, madame, I only wait for your box.” 

“ Do you think these boxes will go easily on our horses ?” 

“ Oh ! yes, madame, but if you have any fear, I can leave 
mine ; I have all I want there.” 

“ No, no, Remy, take all that you want for the journey. Oh ! 
Remy ! I long to be with my father ; I have sad presentiments, 
and it seems an age since I saw him.” 

“ And yet, madame, it is but three months ; not a longer 
interval than usual.” 

“ Remy, you are such a good doctor, and you yourself told 
me, the last time we quitted him, that he had not long to 
live.” 

“ Yes, doubtless ; but it was only a dread, not a prediction. 
Sometimes death seems to forget old men, and they live on as 
though by the habit of living ; and often, besides, an old man is 
like a child, ill to-day and well to-morrow.” 

“ Alas ! Remy, like the child also, he is often well to-day and 
dead to-morrow.” 

Remy did not reply, for he had nothing really reassuring to 
say, and silence succeeded for some minutes. 

“ At what hour have you ordered the horses ?” said the lady, 
at last. 

“ At two o’clock.” 

“ And one has just struck.” 

“ Yes, madame.” 

“No one is watching outside?” 

“ No one.” 

“ Not even that unhappy young man?” 

“ Not even he.” 

And Remy sighed. 

“ You say that in a strange manner, Remy.’* 

“Because he also has made a resolution.” 

“What is it ?” 

“ To see us no more ; at least, not to try to see us anv more.” 

“ And where is he going ?” 

“Where we are all going — to rest.” 

“ God give it him eternally,” said the lady, in x cold voice- 
“band yet— — ” 

“ Yet what, madame ?” 


WHAT PASSED IN THE MYSTERIOUS HOUSE . 255 


“ Had he nothing to do here ?” 

“ He had to love if he had been loved.” 

“ A man of his name, rank, and age, should think of his 
future. ” 

“You, madame, are of an age, rank, and name little inferior 
to his, and you do not look forward to a future.” 

“Yes, Remy, I do,” cried she, with a sudden flashing of 
the eyes ; “ but listen ! is that not the trot of a horse that I 
hear ?” 

“Yes, I think so.” 

“ Can it be ours ?” 

“ It is possible ; but it is an hour too soon.” 

“ It rtops at the door, Remy.” 

Remy ran down and arrived iust as three hurried blows were 
struck on the door. 

“ Who is there ?” said he. 

“ 1 1” replied a trembling voice, “ I, Grandchamp, the baron's 
valet.” 

“ Ah ! mon Dieu ! Grandchamp, you at Pans ! speak low ! 
V» hence do you come ?” 

“ From Meridor. Alas, dear M. Remy !” 

“ Well,” cried the lady from the top of the stairs, “ are they 
our horses, Remy ?” 

“ No, madame, it is not them. What is it, Grandchamp ?” 

“ You do not guess?” 

“ Alas ! I do; what will she do, poor lady.” 

“Remy,” cried she again, “you are talking to some one?” 

“ Yes, madame.” 

“ I thought I knew the voice.” 

“ Indeed, madame.” 

She now descended, saying : 

“ Who is there ? Grandchamp?” 

“ Yes, madame, it is I,” replied the old man sadly, uncover- 
ing his white head. 

“ Grandchamp ! you ! Oh ! mon Dieu ! my presentiments 
were right ; my father is dead ?” 

“ Indeed, madame, Meridor has no longer a master.” 

Pale, but motionless and firmly, the lady listened ; Remy went 
to her and took her hand softly. 

u How did he die ; tell me, my friend ?” said she. 

“ Madame, M. le Baron, who could no longer leave his arm- 
chair, was struck a week ago by an attack of apoplexy. He 


THE FORTY- FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


25 6 

muttered your name for the last time, then ceased to speak, and 
soon was no more.” 

Diana went up again without another word. Her room was 
on the first story, and looked only into a court-yard. The 
furniture was sombre, but rich, the hangings, in Arras tapestry, 
represented the death of our Saviour, a prie-dieu and stool in 
carved oak, a bed with twisted columns, and tapestries like 
the walls, were the sole ornaments of the room. Not a flower, 
no gilding, but in a frame of black was contained a portrait 
of a man, before which the lady now knelt down, with dry 
eyes, but a sad heart. She fixed on this picture a long look 
of indescribable love. It represented a young man about 
twenty-eight, lying half naked on a bed ; from his wounded 
breast the blood still flowed, his right hand hung mutilated, 
and yet it still held a broken sword. His eyes were closed as 
though he were about to die, paleness and suffering gave to his 
face that divine character which the faces of mortals assume 
only at the moment of quitting life for eternity. Under the 
portrait, in letters red as blood, was written, “ Aut Caesar aut 
nihil.” The lady extended her arm, and spoke as though it 
could hear her. 

“ I had begged thee to wait, although thy soul must have 
thirsted for vengeance ; and as the dead see all, thou hast seen, 
my love, that I lived only not to kill my father, else I would 
have died after you ; and then, you know, on your bleeding 
corpse I uttered a vow to give death for death, blood for blood, 
but I would not do it while the old man called me his inno- 
cent child. Thou hast waited, beloved, and now I am free ; 
the last tie which bound me to earth is broken. I am all yours, 
and now I am free to come to you ” 

She rose on one knee, kissed the hand, and then went on : 
“ I can weep no more — my tears have dried up in weeping 
over your tomb. In a few months I shall rejoin you, and you 
then will reply to me, dear shade, to whom I have spoken so 
often without reply.” Diana then rose, and seating herself in 
her chair, muttered, “ Poor father P and then fell into a pro- 
found reverie. At last she called Remy. 

The faithful servant soon appeared. 

“ Here I am, madame.” 

“ My worthy friend, my brother — you, the last person who 
knows me on this earth — say adieu to me.” 

“ Why so, madame ?” 


WHA T PASSED IN THE MYSTERIOUS HOUSE. 257 


“ Because the time has come for us to separate.” 

“ Separate !” cried the young man. “ What do you mean, 
madame ?” 

“ Yes, Remy. My project of vengeance seemed to me noble 
and pure while there remained an obstacle between me and it, 
and I only contemplated it from afar off ; but now that I ap- 
proach the execution of it — now that the obstacle has disap- 
peared — I do not draw back, but I do not wish to drag with 
me into crime a generous and pure soul like yours ; therefore 
you must quit me, my friend.” 

Remy listened to the words of Diana with a sombre look. 

“Madame,” replied he, “do you think you are speaking to 
a trembling old man ? Madame, I am but twenty-six ; and 
snatched as I was from the tomb, if I still live, it is for the ac- 
complishment of some terrible action — to play an active part in 
the work of Providence. Never, then, separate your thoughts 
from mine, since we both have the same thoughts, sinister as 
they may be. Where you go, I will go ; what you do I will 
aid in ; or if, in spite of my prayers, you persist in dismissing 
me ” 

“ Oh !” murmured she, “ dismiss you ! What a word, 
Remy !” 

“ If you persist in that resolution,” continued the young 
man, “ I know what I have to do, and all for me will end with 
two blows from a poniard — one in the heart of him whom you 
know, and the other in your own.” 

“ Remy ! Remy !” cried Diana, “ do not say that. The life 
of him you threaten does not belong to you — it is mine — I have 
paid for it dearly enough. I swear to you, Remy, that on the 
day on which I knelt beside the dead body of him,” — and she 
pointed to the portrait — “ on that day I approached my lij s 
to that open wound, and the trembling lips seemed to say to 
me, ‘Avenge me, Diana ! — avenge me !’ ” 

“ Madame— — ” 

“ Therefore, I repeat, vengeance is for me, and not for you ; 
besides, for whom and through whom did he die ? By me and 
through me.” 

“ I must obey you, madame, for I also was left for dead. 
Who carried me away from the middle of the corpses with whit h 
that room was filled ? — You. Who cured me of my wounds ? 
— You. Who concealed me?— You always. Order, then, 
and I will obey, provided that you do not order me to leave 
you.” 


17 


258 THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN, 

“ So be it, Remy ; you are right ; nothing ought to separate 
us more.” 

Remy pointed to the portrait. 

“ Now, madame,” said he, “ he was killed by treason — it is 
by treason that he must be revenged. Ah ! you do not know 
one thing — the hand of God is with us, for to-night I have 
found the secret of the ‘ Aqua tofana/ that poison of the 
Midicis and of Rene the Florentine.” 

“ Really ?” 

“ Come and see, madame.” 

“ But where is Grandchamp ?” 

‘ The poor old man has come sixty leagues on horseback ; 
he is tired out, and has fallen asleep on my bed.” 

“ Come, then,” said Diana ; and she followed Remy. 


CHAPTER LX. 

THE LABORATORY. 

Remy led the lady into a neighbouring room ; and pushing a 
spring which was hidden under a board in the floor, and which 
opening disclosed a straight dark staircase, gave his hand to 
Diana to help her to descend. Twenty steps of this staircase, 
or rather ladder, led into a dark and circular cave, whose only 
furniture was a stove with an immense hearth, a square table, 
two rush chairs, and a quantity of phials and iron boxes. In 
the stove a dying fire still gleamed, while a thick black smoke 
escaped through a pipe fastened into the wall. From a still 
placed on the hearth a few drops of a liquid, yellow as gold, 
was dropping into a thick white phial. Diana looked round 
her without astonishment or terror; the ordinary feelings of 
life seemed to be unknown to her who lived only in the tomb. 
Remy lighted a lamp, and then approached a well hollowed oat 
in the cave, attached a bucket to a long cord, let it down into 
the well, and then drew it up full of a water as cold as ice and 
as clear as crystal. 

“ Approach, madame,” said he. 

Diana drew near. In the bucket he let fall a single drop 
of the liquid contained in the phial, and the entire mass of 



! ’ ” 


“ The trembling lips seemed to sav to me, 


‘Avenge me, Diana ! Avenge me 





THE LABORATORY. 


259 


the water became instantaneously yellow ; then the colour 
evaporated, and the water in ten minutes became as clear as 
before 

Remy looked at her. 

“ Well ?” said she. 

“Well, madame,” said he, “now dip in that water, which 
has neither smell nor colour, a glove or a handkerchief ; soak 
it in scented soap, pour some of it into the basin where you 
are about to wash your hands or face, and you will see, as was 
seen at the court of Charles IX., the flower kill by its perfume, 
the glove poison by its contact, the soap kill by its introduction 
into the pores of the skin. Pour a single drop of this pure oil 
on the wick of a lamp or candle, and for an hour the candle or 
lamp will exhale death, and burn at the same time like any 
other.” 

“ You are sure of what you say, Remy ?” 

“ All this I have tried. See these birds who can now neither 
drink nor eat; they have drunk of water like this. See this 
goat who has browsed on grass watered with this same water; 
he moves and totters ; vainly now should we restore him to life 
and liberty : his life is forfeited, unless, indeed, nature should 
reveal to his instinct some of those antidotes to poison which 
animals know, although men do not.” 

“ Can I see this phial, Remy ?” 

“Yes, madame, presently.” 

Remy then separated it from the still with infinite care, then 
corked it with soft wax, tied the top up in cloth, and then pre- 
sented it to Diana. 

She took it, held it up to the light, and, after looking at it, 
said : 

“ It will do ; when the time arrives we will choose gloves, 
lamp, soap, or flowers, as convenient. Will the liquor keep 
in metal ?” 

“ It eats it away.” 

“ But then, perhaps, the bottle will break ?” 

“ I think not — see the thickness of the crystal ; besides, we 
can shut it up in a covering of gold.” 

“ Listen, Remy ! I hear horses ; I think ours have arrived.” 

“ Probably, madame, it is about the time ; but I will go and 
send them away.” 

“ Why so ?” 

u Are they not useless ?” 


17—2 


26 o 


THE FORTY FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


“ Instead of going to Meridor, we will go into Flanders. 
Keep the horses.” 

“ Ah ! I understand !” and Remy’s eyes gave forth a flash of 
sinister joy. 

“ But Grandchamp ; what can we do with him ?” said he. 

“ hie has need of repose. He shall remain here, and sell 
this house, which we require no longer. But restore to liberty 
that unhappy animal, whom you were forced to torture. As 
you say, God may care for its recovery.” 

“ This furnace, and these stills ?” 

“ Leave them here.” 

“ But these powders, essences, and acids ?” 

“ Throw them in the fire, Rerny.” 

“ Go away, then, or put on this glass mask.” 

Then, taking similar precautions for himself, he blew up tne 
fire again, poured in the powder, which went off in brilliant 
sparks, some green and some yellow ; and the essences, which, 
instead of being consumed, mounted like serpents of fire into 
the pipe, with a noise like distant thunder. 

“Now,” said Remy, “if any one now discovers this cave, he 
will only think that an alchemist has been here, and though 
they still burn sorcerers, they respect alchemists.” 

“ And besides,” said the lady, “ if they do burn us, provided 
I have only finished my task, I should not mind that sort of 
death more than any other.” 

At this moment they heard knocking. 

“ Here are our horses, madarne,” said Remy ; “go up quickly, 
and I will close the trap-door.” 

Diana obeyed, and found Grandchamp, whom the noise had 
awakened, at the door. 

The old man was not a little surprised to hear of his mis- 
tress’s intended departure, wno informed him of it without tell- 
ing him where she was going. 

“ Grandchamp, my friend,” said she, “ Remy and I are going 
to accomplish a pilgrimage on which we have long determined ; 
speak of this journey to none, and do not mention my name to 
any one.” 

“ Oh ! I promise you, madarne,” replied the old servant ; 
“ but we shall see you again ?” 

“ Doubtless, Grandchamp ; if not in this world, in the next 
But, apropos, Grandchamp, this house is now useless to us.” 

Diana drew from a drawer a bundle of papers. 


THE LABORATORY. 


261 

“ Here are the title-deeds ; let or sell this house ; but if, in the 
course of a month, you do not find a purchaser, abandon it and 
return to Meridor.” 

“ But if I find some one, how much am I to ask ?” 

“ What you please, Grandchamp.” 

“ Shall I take the money to Meridor ?” 

“ Keep it for yourself, my good Grandchamp.” 

“ What, madame, such a gum ?” 

“Yes, I owe it to you for your services; and I have my 
father’s debts to pay as well as my own. Now, adieu.” 

Then Diana went upstairs, cut the picture from the frame, 
rolled it up, and placed it in her trunk. 

When Remy had tied the two trunks with leather thongs, and 
had glanced into the street to see that there were no lookers-on, 
he aided his mistress to mount. 

“ I believe, madame,” said he, “ that this is the last house in 
which we shall live so long.” 

“ The last but one, Remy.” 

“ And what will be the other ?” 

“ The tomb, Remy.” 


CHAPTER LXI. 

WHAT MONSEIGNEUR FRANCOIS, DUC ©’ANJOU, DUC DE BRA- 
BANT AND COMTE DE FLANDERS, WAS DOING IN FLANDERS. 

Our readers must now permit us to leave the king at the 
Louvre, Henri of Navarre at Cahors, Chicot on the road, and 
Diana in the street, to go to Flanders to find M. le Due 
d’Anjou, recently named Due de Brabant, and to whose aid 
we have seen sent the great admiral of France — Anne, Due de 
Joyeuse. 

At eighty leagues from Paris, towards the north, the sound 
of French voices was heard, and the French banner floated 
over a French camp on the banks of the Scheldt. It was 
night ; the fires, disposed in an immense circle, bordered the 
stream, and were reflected in its deep waters. 

From the top of the ramparts of the town the sentinels saw 
shining, by the bivouac fires, the muskets of the French army. 
This army was that of the Due d’Aniou. What he had come 


252 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


to do there we must tell our readers ; and although it may not 
be very amusing, yet we hope they will pardon it in considera- 
tion of the warning ; so many people are dull without announc- 
ing it 

Those of our readers who have read “Chicot,” already know 
the Due d’Anjou, that jealous, egotistical, ambitious prince, 
and who, born so near to the throne, had never been able to 
wait with resignation until death offered him a free passage to 
it Thus he had desired the throne of Navarre under Charles 
IX., then that of Charles IX. himself, then that of his brother 
Henri III. For a time he had turned his eyes towards England, 
then governed by a woman, and to possess this throne he was 
ready to have married this woman, although she was Elizabeth, 
and was twenty years older than himself. In this plan destiny 
was beginning to smile on him, and he saw himself in the 
favour of a great queen, until then inaccessible to all human 
affections. Besides this, a crown was offered to him in Flanders. 

He had seen his brother Henri embarrassed in his quarrel 
with the Guises, but had soon discovered that they had no 
other aim than that of substituting themselves for the Valois. 
He had then separated himself from them, although not with- 
out danger; besides, Henri III. had at last opened his eyes, 
and the duke, exiled, or something like it, had retired to 
Amboise. 

It was then that the Flemings opened their arms to him. 
Tired of Spanish rule, decimated by the Due d’Alva, deceived 
by the false peace of John of Austria, who had profited by it 
to retake Namur and Charlemont, the Flemings had called 
in William of Nassau, Prince of Orange, and had made him 
Governor-General of Brabant A few words about this man, 
who held so great a place in history, but who will only be 
named here. 

William of Nassau was then about fifty. He was the son of 
William called the Old, and of Julienne de Stolberg, cousin of 
that Ren£ of Nassau killed at the siege of Dizier. He had 
from his youth been brought up in principles of reform, and 
had a full consciousness of the greatness of his mission. This 
mission, which he believed he had received from heaven, and 
for which he died like a martyr, was to found the Republic of 
Holland, in which he was successful. When very young he had 
been called by Charles V. to his court. Charles was a good 
judge of men. and often the old emperor, who suppoited the 


WHA T D' ANJOU WAS DOING IN FLANDERS. 26 3 


heaviest burden ever borne by an imperial hand, consulted the 
child on the most delicate matters connected with the politics 
of Holland. The young man w r as scarcely twenty-four when 
Charles confided to him, in the absence of the famous Philibert 
Emanuel of Savoy, the command of the army in Flanders. 
William showed him self worthy of this high confidence : he held 
in check the Due de Nevers and Coligny, two of the greatest 
captains of the tim e, and under their eyes fortified Philipville 
and Charlemont. On the day when Charles V. abdicated, it 
was on William of Nassau that he leaned to descend the steps 
of the throne, and he it was wFo w r as charged to carry to Ferdi- 
nand the imperial throne which Cl arles had resigned. 

Then came Philippe II., and in spite of his father’s recom- 
mendations to him to regard William as a brother, the latter 
soon found a great difference. This strengthened in his mind 
the great idea of freeing Holland and Flanders, which he might 
never have endeavoured to carry into effect if the old emperor, 
his friend, had remained on the throne. 

Holland, by his advice, demanded the dismissal of the foreign 
troops, and then began the bloody struggle of the Spaniards to 
retain the prey w'hich w T as escaping from them, and then passed 
over thisun happy people the vice-royalty of Marguerite of 
Austria and the bloody consulship of the Due d’Alva, and then 
was organised that struggle, at once political and religious, 
w r hich began wfith the protest of the Hotel Culembourg, which 
demanded the abolition of the Inquisition in Holland, and when 
four hundred gentlemen, walking in pairs, carried to the foot of 
Marguerite s throne the general desire of the people, as summed 
up in that protest. At the sight of these gentlemen, so simply 
clothed, Barlaimont, one of the councillors of the duchess, 
uttered the word “ Gueux,” which, taken up by the Flemish 
gentlemen, so long designated the patriot party. From this 
time William began to play the part which made him one of 
the greatest political actors of the w^orld. Constantly beaten by 
the overwhelming power of Philippe II., he constantly rose 
again, always stronger after his defeats — always organising a 
new army to replace the scattered one, and always hailed as a 
liberator. 

In the midst of these alternate moral triumphs and physical 
defeats, William learned at Mons the news of the massacre of 
St. Bartholomew. It w r as a terrible wound for Holland, and 
the Calvinist portion of Flanders lost by it their natural allies, 
the Huguenots of Franco- 


264 


THE FORTY- FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


William retreated from Mons to the Rhine, and waited for 
events. Some of the Gueux was driven by a contrary wind into 
the port of Brille ; and seeing no escape, and pushed by despair, 
took the city which was preparing to hang them. 

This done, they chased away the Spanish garrison, and sent 
for the Prince of Orange. He came ; and as he wished to 
strike a decisive blow, he published an ordonnance forbidding 
the Catholic religion in Holland, as the Protestant faith was 
forbidden in France. 

At this manifesto war recommenced. The Due d’Alva sent 
his own son Frederic against the revolters, who took from them 
Zutphen, Nardem, and Haarlem ; but this check, far from dis- 
couraging them, seemed to give them new strength. All took 
up arms, from the Zuyderzee to the Scheldt. Spain began to 
tremble, recalled the Due d’Alva, and sent as his successor 
Louis de Requesens, one of the conquerors at Le panto. 

Then began for William a new series of misfortunes — Ludovic 
and Henri of Nassau, who were bringing him aid, were surprised 
by one of the officers of Don Louis near Nimegue, defeated and 
killed ; the Spaniards penetrated into Holland, besieged Leyden, 
and pillaged Antwerp. 

All seemed desperate, when heaven came once more to the 
aid of the infant Republic. Requesens died at Brussels. 

Then all the provinces, united by a common interest, drew 
up and signed, on the 8th November, 1576, that is to say four 
days after the sack of Antwerp, the treaty known under the name 
of the Treaty of Ghent, by which they engaged to aid each other 
in delivering their country from the yoke of the Spaniards and 
other foreigners. 

Don John reappeared, and with him the woes of Holland; 
for in less than two months Namur and Charlemont were taken. 
The Flemings replied, however, to these two checks by naming 
the Prince of Orange Governor-General of Brabant. 

Don John died in his turn, and Alexander Farnese succeeded 
him. He was a clever prince, charming in his manners, which 
were at once gentle and firm ; a skilful politician, and a good 
general. Flanders trembled at hearing that soft Italian voice 
call her friend, instead of treating her as a rebel. William knew 
that Farnese would do more for Spain with his promises than 
the Due d’Alva with his punishments. On the 29th January, 
1579, he made the provinces sign the Treaty of Utrecht, which 
was the fundamental base of the rights of Holland. It was then 


WHAT V ANJOU WAS DOING IN FLANDERS. 265 

that, fearing he should never be able to accomplish alone the 
freedom for which he had been fighting for fifteen years, he 
offered to the Due d’Anjou the sovereignty of the country, on 
condition that he should respect their privileges and their liberty 
of conscience. This was a terrible blow to Philippe II., and he 
replied to it by putting a price of 25,000 crowns on the head ol 
William. The States-General assembled at the Hague, the? 
declared Philippe deposed from the sovereignty of Holland, 
and ordered that henceforth the oath of fidelity should be taken 
to them. 

The Due d’Anjou now entered Belgium, and was well received. 
Philippe’s promise, however, bore its fruits ; for, in the midst of 
a fete, a pistol shot was heard ; William fell, and was believed 
dead ; but he recovered. The shot had been fired by Jean 
Jaureguy. 

The Flemings then, on William’s advice, elected Francois, 
Due of Brabant, Sovereign Prince of Flanders. Elizabeth of 
England saw in this a method of reuniting the Calvinists of 
Flanders and France to those of England — perhaps she dreamed 
of a triple crown. William, however, took care to hold the Due 
d’Anjou in check, and to counteract the execution of any design 
which would have given him too much power in Flanders. 
Philippe II. called the Due de Guise to his aid, on the strength 
of a treaty which had been entered into by him with Don John 
of Austria. Henri of Guise consented, and it was then that 
Lorraine and Spain sent Salcede to the Due d’Anjou to assassi- 
nate him, which would have suited the views of both ; but 
Salcede, as we know, was arrested and executed without having 
carried his project into execution. 

Francis advanced but slowly, however, in Flanders, for the 
people were more than half afraid of him ; he grew impatient, 
and determined to lay siege to Antwerp, which had invited his 
aid against Farnese, but when he wished to enter had turned 
its guns against him. This was the position of the Due d’Anjou 
at the time when our story rejoins him, on the day after the 
arrival of Joyeuse and his fleet. 


266 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


CHAPTER LXII. 

PREPARATIONS FOR BATTLE. 

The camp of the new Duke of Brabant was situated on the 
banks of the Scheldt, and the army, although well disciplined, 
was agitated by a spirit easy to understand. 

Indeed, many Calvinists assisted the duke, not from sympathy 
for him, but in order to be as disagreeable as possible to Spain 
and to the Catholics of France and England; they fought 
rather from self-love than from conviction or devotion, and it 
was cettain that, the campaign once over, they would abandon 
their leader or impose conditions on him. With regard to these 
conditions, the duke always gave them to understand that when 
the time came he should be ready, and was constantly saying, 
“ Henri of Navarre made himself a Catholic, why should not I 
become a Huguenot ?” On the opposite side, on the contrary, 
there existed a perfect unity of feeling. Antwerp had intended 
to give entrance to him, at her own time and on her own con- 
ditions. 

All at once they saw a fleet appear at the mouth of the 
Scheldt, and they learned that this fleet was brought by the 
high admiral of France, to aid the Due d’Anjou, whom they 
now began to look upon as their enemy. The Calvinists of the 
duke were little better pleased than the Flemings at the sight. 
They were very brave, but very jealous ; and they did not wish 
others to come and clip their laurels, particularly swords which 
had slain so many Huguenots on the day of the St. Bartholomew. 
From this proceeded many quarrels, which began on the very 
evening of their arrival, and continued all the next day. From 
their ramparts, the Antwerpians had every day the spectacle ot 
a dozen duels between Catholics and Protestants ; and they 
threw into the river as many dead as a combat might have cost 
the French. If the siege of Antwerp, like that of Troy, had 
lasted nine years, the besieged need have done nothing but look 
at the assailants, who would certainly have destroyed them- 
selves. Francis acted the part of mediator, but not without 
great difficulty ; he’had made promises to the Huguenots, and 
could not offend them without offending at the same time all 
Flanders. On the other hand, to offend the Catholics sent by 
the king to aid him would be most impolitic. The arrival of 


PREPARATIONS FOR BATTLE. 


267 


this reinforcement, on which the duke himself had not reckoned, 
filled the Spaniards and the Guises with rage. Ho\Vever, all 
these different opinions interfered sadly with the discipline cf 
the duke’s army. Joyeuse, who we know had never liked the 
mission, was annoyed to find among there men such antago- 
nistic opinions, and felt instinctively that the time for success 
was past, and both as an idle courtier and as a captain, grum- 
bled at having come so far only to meet with defeat. He de- 
clared loudly that the Due d’ Anjou had been wrong in laying 
siege to Antwerp, and argued that to possess a great city with 
its own consent was a real advantage ; but that to take by 
assault the second capital of his future states was to expose 
himself to the dislike of the Flemings ; and Joyeuse knew the 
Flemings too well not to feel sure that if the Duke did take 
Antwerp, sooner or later they would revenge themselves with 
usury. This opinion Joyeuse did not hesitate to declare in the 
duke’s tent. 

While the council was held among his captains, the duke was 
lying on a couch and listening, not to the advice of the ad- 
miral, but to the whispers of Aurilly. This man, by his cowardly 
compliances, his base flatteries, and his continual assiduities, 
had secured the favour of the prince. With his lute, his love 
messages, and his exact information about all the persons and 
all the intrigues of the court — with his skilful manoeuvres for 
drawing into the prince’s net whatever prey he might wish for, 
he had made a large fortune, while he remained to all appearance 
the poor luteplayer. His influence was immense, because it 
was secret. 

Joyeuse, seeing the duke talking to Aurilly, stopped short. 
The duke, who had, after all, been paying more attention than 
he seemed to do, asked him what was the matter. 

“Nothing, monseigneur; I am only waiting until your high- 
ness is at liberty to listen to me.” 

“O ! but I do listen, M. de Joyeuse. Do you think I can- 
not listen to two people at once, when Caesar dictated seven 
letters at a time T 

“ Monseigneur,” said Joyeuse, with a glance at the musician, 
“ I am no singer to need an accompaniment when I speak.” 

“ Very good, duke ; be quiet, Aurilly. Then you disapprove 
of a coup de main on Antwerp ?” 

“Yes, monseigneur.” 

adopted this plan in council, however.” 


268 THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN, 

“Therefore, monseigneur, I speak with much hesitation, 
after so many distinguished captains.” 

And Joyeuse, courtier-like, bowed to all. Many voices were 
instantly raised to agree with the admiral. 

“ Comte de St. Aignan,” said the prince to one of his bravest 
colonels, “ you are not of the opinion of M. de Joyeuse ?” 

“Yes, monseigneur, I am.” 

“ Oh ! I thought as you made a grimace ” 

Every one laughed but Joyeuse, who said, “If M. de St 
Aignan generally gives his advice in that manner, it is not very 
polite, that is all.” 

“M. de Joyeuse,” replied St. Aignan, “his highness is wrong 
to reproach me with an infirmity contracted in his service. At 
the taking of Cateau-Cambresis I received a blow on the head, 
and since that time my face is subject to nervous contractions, 
which occasion those grimaces of which his highness complains. 
This is not an excuse that I give you, M. de Joyeuse; it is an 
explanation,” said the count, proudly. 

“No, monsieur,” said Joyeuse, “it is a reproach that you 
make, and you are right.” 

The blood mounted to the face of Due Francis. 

“ And to whom is this reproach addressed ?” said he. 

“ To me, probably, monseigneur.” 

- “ Why should St Aignan reproach you, whom he does not 

know ?” 

“ Because I believed for a moment that M. de St. Aignan 
cared so little for your highness as to counsel you to assault 
Antwerp.” 

“ But,” cried the prince, “ I must settle my position in the 
country. I am Duke of Brabant and Count of Flanders, in 
name, and I must be so in reality. This William, who is gone 
I know not where, spoke to me of a kingdom. Where is this 
kingdom ? — in Antwerp. Where is he ? — probably in Antwerp 
also ; therefore we must take Antwerp, and we shall know how 
we stand.” 

“ Oh ! monseigneur, you know it new, or you are, in truth, a 
worse politician than I thought you. Who counselled you to 
take Antwerp? — the Prince of Orange. Who disappeared at 
the moment of taking the field ? — the Prince of Orange. Who, 
while he made your highness Duke of Brabant, reserved for 
himself the lieutenant-generalship of the duchy ? — the Prince 
of Orange. Whose interest is it to ruin the Spaniards by you, 


PREPARA 710 NS FOR BA TTLE. 


269 


and you by the Spaniards ? — the Prince of Orange. Who will 
replace you, who will succeed, if he does not do so already ? — 
the Prince of Orange. Oh ! monseigneur, in following his 
counsels you have but annoyed the Flemings. Let a reverse 
come, and all those who do not dare to look you now in the 
face, will run after you like those timid dogs who run after those 
who fly.” 

“ What ! you imagine that I can be beaten by wool-merchants 
and beer-drinkers ?” 

“ These wool-merchants and these beer-drinkers have given 
plenty to do to Philippe de Valois, the Emperor Charles V., 
and Philippe II., who were three princes placed sufficiently 
high, monseigneur, for the comparison not to be disagreeable to 
you.” 

“ Then you fear a repulse ?” 

“ Yes, monseigneur, I do.” 

“ You will not be there, M. de Joyeuse.” 

“ Why not ?” 

“ Because you can hardly have such doubts of your ow r n 
bravery as already to see yourself flying before the Flemings. 
In any case, reassure yourself, these prudent merchants have 
the habit, when they march to battle, of cumbering themselves 
with such heavy armour that they would never catch you if you 
did run.” 

“ Monseigneur, I do not doubt my own courage. I shall be 
in the front, but I shall be beaten there, as the others who are 
behind will be.” 

“ But your reasoning is not logical, M. de Joyeuse ; you ap- 
prove of my taking the lesser places.’’ 

“ I approve of your taking those that do not defend them- 
selves.” 

“ And then I am to draw back from the great city because 
she talks of defending herself?” 

“ Better than to march on to destruction.” 

“Well, I will not retreat.” 

“Your highness must do as you like; and we are here to 
obey.” 

“ Prove to me that I am wrong.” 

“ Monseigneur, see the army of the Prince of Orange. It 
was yours, was it not ? Well, instead of sitting down before 
Antwerp with you, it is in Antwerp, which is very different. 
William, you say, was your friend and counsellor ; and now 


270 


THE FORTY- FIVE GUARDSMEN 


you not only do not know where he is, but you believe him to 
be changed into an enemy. See the Flemings — when you ar- 
rived they were pleased to see you ; now they shut their gates 
at your sight, and prepare their cannon at your approach, not 
less than if you were the Due d’Alva. Well ! I tell you, Flem- 
ings and Dutch, Antwerp and Orange, only wait for an oppor- 
tunity to unite against you, and that opportunity will be when 
you order your artillery to fire.” 

“ Well, we will fight at once Flemings and Dutch, Antwerp 
and Orange.” 

“ No, monseigneur, we have but just men enough to attack 
Antwerp, supposing we have only the inhabitants to deal with ; 
and whilst we are engaged in the assault, William will fall on 
us with his eternal eight or ten thousand men, always destroyed 
and always reappearing, by the aid of which he has kept in 
check during ten or twelve years the Due d’Alva, Requesens, 
and the Due de Parma.” 

“ Then you persist in thinking that we shall be beaten ?” 

“ I do.” 

“ Well, it is easy for you to avoid it, M. de Joyeuse,” said 
the prince angrily ; “ my brother sent you here to aid me, but 
I may dismiss you, saying that I do not need aid.” 

“ Your highness may say so, but I would not retire on the 
eve of a battle.” 

“ Well, my dear admiral,” said the duke, trying to conciliate, 
“ I may have been too jealous of the honour of my name, and 
wished too much to prove the superiority of the French army, 
and I may have been wrong. But the evil is done ; we are 
before armed men — before men who now refuse what they them- 
selves offered. Am I to yield to them ? To-morrow they 
would begin to retake, bit by bit, what I have already con- 
quered. No! the sword is drawn; let us strike, or they will 
strike first. That is my opinion.” 

“ When your highness speaks thus,” said Joyeuse, “ I will say 
no more. I am here to obey you, and will do so with all my 

heart, whether you lead me to death or victory ; and yet 

but I will say no more.” 

“ Speak.” 

“No, I have said enough.” 

“ No, I wish to hear.” 

“ In private then, if it please your highness.” 

All rose and retired to the other end of the spacious tent 


PREPARATIONS FOR BATTLE . 


271 


u Speak,” said Francois. 

“ Monseigneur may care little for a check from Spain, a check 
which will render triumphant those drinkers of Flemish beer, 
or this double-faced Prince of Orange ; but will you bear so 
patiently the laughter of M. de Guise ?” 

Francis frowned. 

“ What has M. de Guise to do with it ?” said he. 

“ M. de Guise tried to have you assassinated, monseigneur ; 
Salcede confessed it at the torture, and, if I mistake not, he 
plays a great part in all this, and he will be delighted to see 
) ou receive a check before Antwerp, or even perhaps to obtain, 
for nothing, that death of a son of France, for which he had 
promised to pay so dearly to Salcede. Read the history of 
Flanders, monseigneur, and you will see that the Flemings are 
in the habit of enriching their soil with the blood of princes, 
and of the best French warriors.” 

The duke shook his head. 

“Well, Joyeuse,” said he, “I will give, if it must be, the 
cursed joy to the Lorraines of seeing me dead, but not that of 
seeing me flying. I thirst for glory, Joyeuse ; for alone of all 
my name, I have still my battles to win.” 

“ You forget Cateau Cambresis, monseigneur. ” 

“ Compare that with Jarnac and Moncontour, Joyeuse.” 
Then, turning to the others, who were standing far off, he 
said, “ Gentlemen, the assault is still resolved on ; the ram has 
ceased, the ground is good, we will make the attack this night. ’ 

Joyeuse bowed. 

“ Will your highness give full directions ? we wait for them,” 
said he. 

“ You have eight vessels, without counting the admiral’s ship, 
have you not, M. de Joyeuse?” 

“Yes, monseigneur,” 

“ You will force the line ; the thing will be easy, the Antwer- 
pians having only merchant vessels in the port ; then you will 
bring them to bear upon the fort. Then, if the quay is defended, 
you will attempt a landing with your 1500 men. Of the rest 
of the army I will make two columns ; one commanded by M. 
de St Aignan, the other by myself. Both will attempt an es- 
calade by surprise, at the moment when the first cannon-shot is 
fired. 

“ The cavalry will remain in position, in case of a repulse, to 
protect the retreating columns. Of these three attacks, one 


272 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


must surely succeed. The first column which gains the ram- 
parts will fire a rocket to let the others know.” 

“ But one must think of everything, monseigneur,” said 
Joyeuse ; “ and supposing all three attacks should fail ?” 

“ Then we must gain the vessels under the protection of our 
batteries.” 

All bowed. 

“ Now, gentlemen, silence,” said the duke ; “ wake the sleep- 
ing troops, and embark ; but let not a shot reveal our design. 
You will be in *he port, admiral, before the Antwerpians sus- 
pect your intention. We shall go along the left bank, and 
shall arrive at the same time as yourself. Go, gentlemen, and 
good courage ; our former good luck will not fail to follow us 
over the Scheldt.” 

The captains quitted the prince’s tent, and gave their orders 
with the indicated precautions. 


CHAPTER LXIIL 

MONSEIGNEUR. 

However, the Antwerpians did not quietly see the hostile pre- 
parations of the Due d’ Anjou, and Joyeuse was not wrong in 
attributing to them all the enmity possible. Antwerp was like 
a beehive at night, calm on the exterior, but within full of 
movement and murmur. 

The Flemings in arms patrolled the streets, barricaded their 
houses, and fraternised with the battalions of the Prince of 
Orange, of whom part were a 1 ready in garrison there, while the 
other part entered the city in fractions. 

When all was ready for a vigorous defence, the Prince of 
Orange, on a dark and moonless night, entered the city quietly, 
and went to the Hotel de Ville, where his confidants had every- 
thing ready for his reception. There he received all the 
deputies of the bourgeoisie, passed in review the officers of the 
paid troops, and communicated his plans to them, the chief of 
which was to profit by this movement of the Due d’ Anjou to 
break with him. The duke had done just what William wished 
to bring him to, and he saw with pleasure this new competitor 
for the sovereignty ruin himself, like so many others. 


MONSEIGNEUR. 


273 


William would have taken the offensive, but the governor 
objected, and determined to wait for the arrival of Monseigneur. 

Nine o’clock in the evening sounded, and the uncertainty 
became real anxiety, some scouts having protested that they 
had seen a movement in the French camp. A little flat boat 
had been sent on the Scheldt to reconnoitre, for the Antwerp- 
ians were less unquiet as to what would occur by land than by 
sea ; but the barque had not returned William became more 
and more impatient, when the door of the hall opened, and a 
valet appeared and announced “ Monseigneur. ” As he spoke, 
a man, tall and imperious-looking, wearing with supreme grace 
the cloak which entirely enveloped him, entered the hall, and 
saluted courteously those who were there. But at the first 
glance, his eye, proud and piercing, sought out the prince in 
the midst of his officers. 

He went straight up to him and offered him his hand, 
which the prince pressed with affection, and almost with re- 
spect 

They called each other “ Monseigneur.” After this the un- 
known took off his cloak. He was dressed in a buff doub- 
let, and had high leather boots ; he was armed with a long 
sword, which seemed to make part of himself, so easily it 
hung, and with a little dagger, which was passed through his 
belt. His boots were covered with mud and dust, and his 
spurs were red with the blood of his horse. He took his 
place at the table. 

“ Well, where are we ?” asked he. 

“ Monseigneur,” replied William, “ you must have seen, in 
coming here, that the streets were barricaded.” 

“I saw that.” 

" And the houses loopholed ?” 

“ I did not see that ; but it is a good plan.” 

“ And the sentries doubled ?” 

“ Does not monseigneur approve of these preparations for 
defence ?” said a voice, in a tone of anxious disappointment. 

“ Yes ; but, however, I do not believe that in our circum- 
stances it will be useful ; it fatigues the soldier and disquiets 
the bourgeois. You have a plan of attack and defence, I sup- 
pose ?” 

“ We waited to communicate them to monseigneur,” said the 
burgomaster. 

“ Speak then.” 

18 


274 THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN . 

“ Monseigneur arrived rather late, and I was obliged to act 
meanwhile,” said William. 

“And you did right, monseigneur; besides, whatever you 
do, you do well. But I have not lost my time on the road 
either.” 

“ We know by our spies,” said the burgomaster, “ that a 
movement is preparing in the French camp ; they are making 
ready for an attack, but as we do not know on which side it 
will come, we have disposed the guns so that they may be equally 
distributed over the whole rampart.” 

“ That is wise,” replied the unknown, with a slight smile to 
William, who held his tongue, and let the bourgeois speak of 
war. 

“ We have done the same with our civic guards ; they are 
spread over the whole wall, and have orders to run at once to 
the point of attack. However, it is the opinion of the greater 
number of our members that it is impossible that the French 
meditate anything but a feigned attack.” 

“And what purpose would that serve ?” 

“To intimidate us, and induce us to admit them amicably.” 

The stranger looked again at the Prince of Orange, who lis- 
tened to all this in the most careless manner, which almost 
amounted to disdain. 

“ However,” said another voice, “ some fancied they could 
distinguish preparations for attack in the camp this evening.” 

“ Mere suspicions,” said the burgomaster ; “ I examined the 
camp myself with an excellent spy-glass. The men were pre- 
paring for sleep, and the duke was dining in his tent” 

The unknown threw a new glance at the prince, and fancied 
that this time he gave a slight smile. 

“ Gentlemen,” said the unknown, “ you are in error ; a regu- 
lar assault is preparing against you, and your plans, however 
good, are incomplete.” 

“ But, monseigneur ” 

“ Incomplete in this, that you expect an attack, and have 
prepared to meet it.” 

“ Certainly.” 

“ Well, it is you who will make the attack, not wait for it, if 
you will trust to me.” 

“ Ah !” cried William, “ that is something like speaking.” 

“ At this moment,” said the stranger, who saw that he might 
reckon on the prince’s support, “the ships of M. de Joyeuse 
are getting ready.” 


M ON'S El G iXE UR. 


?75 


“ How do you know that, monseigneur ?” cried many voices 
together. 

“ I know it,” replied he. 

A murmur of doubt was half uttered, but the stranger caught 
it. 

“ Do you doubt it ?” asked he, in the tone of a man accus- 
tomed to control all fears, prejudices, and self-loves. 

“ We do not doubt it if your highness says it ; but if you will 
permit us to observe ” 

“ Speak.” 

“ That if it were so we should have had tidings of it.” 

“ How so ?” 

“ By our spies.” 


CHAPTER LXIV. 

MONSEIGNEUR. 

At this moment another man entered the hall, and came forward 
respectfully. 

“ Ah ! it is you, my friend,” said the burgomaster. 

“ Myself, monsieur,” replied the man. 

“ Monseigneur,” said the burgomaster, “ it is the man whom 
we sent to reconnoitre.” 

At the word “ monseigneur,” addressed not to the Prince of 
Orange, the new comer made a movement of surprise and joy, 
and advanced quickly to see better who was designated by this 
title. He was one of those Flemish sailors, of whom the type 
is so recognisable, being marked, a square head, blue eyes, short 
neck, and broad shoulders ; he crushed in his large hands his 
woollen cap, and as he advanced he left behind him a line of 
wet, for his clothes were dripping with water. 

“ Oh ! here is a brave man who has swum back,” said 
monseigneur, looking at the man with his accustomed air of 
authority. 

“ Yes, monseigneur, yes ; and the Scheldt is broad and rapid,” 
said the sailor, eagerly. 

“Speak, Goes, speak,” said monseigneur, knowing how a 
sailor would prize being thus called by his name. 

Thus from that minute Goes addressed himself to the un- 

18 — 2 


275 


THE FORTY- FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


known exclusively ; although, having been sent by another, 
it was to him that he should have given an account of his 
mission. 

“ Monseigneur,” said he, “ I set out in my smallest barque and 
passed, by giving the word, through all our ships, and reached 
those cursed French. Ah ! pardon, monseigneur. ” 

The stranger smiled and said, “Never mind, I am but half 
French, so should be but half cursed.” 

“ Then monseigneur pardons me ?” 

He nodded, and Goes went on. 

“ While 1 rowed in the dark with my oars wrapped in cloth, 
I heard a voice crying, ‘ Hola ! barque, what do you want ?’ I 
thought it was to me that the question was addressed, and was 
about to reply something or other, when I heard some one cry 
behind me, ‘ Admiral’s boat.’ ” 

Monseigneur looked at the council. 

“ At the same moment,” continued Goes, “ I felt a shock ; 
my bark was swamped, and I fell into the water, but the waves 
of the Scheldt knew me for an old acquaintance, and threw me 
up again. It was the admiral’s boat taking M. de Joyeuse on 
board, and which had passed over me ; God only knows how I 
was not crushed or drowned.” 

“ Thanks, brave Goes, thanks,” said the Prince of Orange, 
putting a purse into his hand. However, the sailor seemed to 
wait for his dismissal from the stranger, who gave him a friendly 
nod, which he valued more than the prince’s present. 

“ Well,” said monseigneur to the burgomaster, “ what do 
you say of this report ? Do you still doubt that the French 
are preparing, and do you believe that it was to pass the n»ght 
on board that M. de Joyeuse was leaving the camp for his 
ship ?” 

“ But you are a diviner, then, monseigneur,” cried the bour- 
geois. 

“ Not more than Monseigneur the Prince of Orange, who is 
in all things of my opinion, I am sure. But I, like him, was 
well informed, and know well those on the other side, so that 
I should have been much astonished had they not attacked 
to-night. Then be ready, gentlemen, for if you give them time, 
the attack will be serious.” 

“ These gentlemen will do me the justice to own,” said the 
prince, “ that before your arrival I held exactly the same lan- 
guage to them that you now do.” 


MONSEIGNEUR. 


277 


“ But,” said the burgomaster, “ why does monseigneur believe 
that the attack is about to commence ?” 

“Here are the probabilities. The infantry is Catholic; it 
will fight alone ; that is, on one side. The cavalry is Calvinist ; 
they will fight alone on another side. The navy is under M. de 
Joyeuse, from Paris, who will take his share of the combat and 
the glory. That is three sides.” 

“ Then let us form three corps,” said the burgomaster. 

“ Make only one, gentlemen, w r ith all your best soldiers, and 
leave any of whom you may be doubtful in close fight to guard 
your walls. Then with this body make a vigorous sally when 
Francois least expects it. They mean to attack ; let them be 
forestalled, and attacked themselves. If you wait for their 
assault you are lost, for no one equals the French at an attack, 
as you, gentlemen, have no equals at defending your towns.” 

The Flemings looked radiant. 

“ What did I say, gentlemen ?” said William. 

“ It is a great honour,” said the unknown, “ to havebeen, without 
knowing it, of the same opinion as the greatest captain of the age. 

Both bowed courteously. 

“ Then,” continued the unknown, “ it is settled : you will 
make a furious sortie on tlie infantry and cavalry. I trust that 
your officers will so conduct it as to defeat your enemies.” 

“ But their vessels ?” cried the burgomaster. “ The wind is 
north-east, and they will be in our city in two hours.” 

“ You have yourselves six old ships and thirty boats at St. 
Marie ; that is a mile off, is it not ? That is your maritime 
barricade across the Scheldt.” 

“ Yes, monseigneur, that is so. How do you know all these 
details ?” 

Monseigneur smiled. 

“ I know them, as you see ; it is there that lies the fate of the 
battle.” 

“Then,” said the burgomaster, we must send aid to our 
brave seamen.” 

“On the contrary, you may dispose otherwise of the 400 
men who are there ; twenty brave, intelligent, and devoted men 
will suffice.” 

The Antwerpians opened their eyes in surprise. 

“ Will you,” continued monseigneur, “ destroy the F-rench 
fleet at the expense of your six old vessels and thirty boats ?” 

“Hum !” said the Antwerpians, looking at each other, “our 
ships are not so old.” 


3/8 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN . 


“ Well, price them,” said the stranger, “ and I will pay you 
their value.” 

“ See,” said William softly to him, “ the men against whom I 
have to contend every day. Were it not for that, I should have 
conquered long ago.” 

“ Come, gentlemen,” continued the stranger, “ name your 
price, but name it quickly. I will pay you in bills on your- 
selves, which I trust you will find good.” 

“ Monseigneur,” said the burgomaster, after a few minutes’ 
deliberation with the others, “we are merchants, and not 
soldiers ; therefore, you must pardon some hesitation, for our 
souls are not in our bodies, but in our counting-houses. How- 
ever, there are circumstances in which, for the general good, we 
know how to make sacrifices. Dispose, then, of our ships as 
you like.” 

“ Ma foi, monseigneur,” said William, “ you have done 
wonders. It would have taken me six months to obtain what 
you have done in ten minutes.” 

“This, then, is my plan, gentlemen,” said monseigneur. 
“ The French, with the admiral’s galley at their head, will try 
to force a passage. Make your line, long enough, and from all 
your boats let the men throw grappling-irons ; and then, having 
made fast the enemy’s ships, set fire to all your own boats, 
having previously filled them with combustible materials, and 
let ybur men escape in one reserved for the purpose.” 

“ Oh !” cried William, “ I see the whole French fleet burning.” 

“ Yes, the whole ; then no more retreat by sea and none by 
land, for at the same time you must open the sluices of Malines, 
Berchem, Tier, Duffel, and Antwerp. Repulsed by you, pur- 
sued by your open dykes, enveloped on all sides by these waters 
unexpectedly and rapidly rising, by this sea, which will have a 
flow, but no ebb, the French will be drowned — overwhelmed— 
destroyed.” 

The officers uttered a cry of joy 

“ There is but one drawback,” said the prince. 

“ What is it, monseigneur?” 

“ That it would take a day to send our orders to the different 
towns, and we have but an hour.” 

And an hour is enough.” 

“ But who will instruct the fleet ?” 

“ It is done.” 

“ By whom ?” 


MONSEIGNEUR. 


279 


“ By me. If these gentlemen had refused to give it to me, I 
should have bought it.” 

“ But Malines, Lier, Duffel ?” 

“ I passed through Malines and Lier, and sent a sure agent 
to Duffel. At eleven o’clock the French will be beaten ; at one 
they will be in full retreat ; at two Malines will open its dykes, 
Lier and Duffel their sluices, and the whole plain will become a 
furious ocean, which will drown houses, fields, woods, and 
villages, it is true, but at the same time will destroy the French 
so utterly, that not one will return to France.” 

A silence of admiration and terror followed these words; 
then all at once the Flemings burst into applause. William 
stepped forward, and, holding out his hand, said : 

“ Then, monseigneur, all is ready on our side ?” 

“All; and. stay — I believe on the side of the French also.” 

And he pointed to an officer who was entering. 

“ Gentlemen,” cried the officer, “ we have just heard that the 
French are marching towards the city.” 

“To arms !” cried the burgomaster. 

“ To arms !” cried all. 

“ One moment, gentlemen, ’ cried monseigneur ; “ I have to 
give one direction more important than all the rest.” 

“ Speak !” cried all. 

“The French will be surprised ; it will not be a combat, nor 
even a retreat, but a flight. To pursue them you must be 
lightly armed. No cuirasses, morbleu ! It is your cuira ses, in 
which you cannot move, which have made you lose all the 
battles you have lost. No cuirasses, gentlemen. We will meet 
again in the combat. Meanwhile, go to the place of the Hotel 
de Ville, where you will find all your men in battle array.” 

“Thanks, monseigneur,” said W T illiam; “you have saved 
Belgium and Holland.” 

“Prince, you overwhelm me.” 

“ Will your highness consent to draw the sword against the 
French ?” asked the prince. 

“ I will arrange so as to fight against the Huguenots,” replied 
the unknown, with a smile which his more sombre companion 
might have envied. 


zSo 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN 


CHAPTER LXV. 

FRENCH AND FLEMINGS. 

At the moment when the members of the council left the 
Hotel de Ville, the officers went to put themselves at the head 
of their troops, and execute the orders they had received. At 
the same time the artillery sounded. This artillery surprised 
the French in their nocturnal march, by which they had hoped 
to surprise the town ; but instead of stopping their advance, it 
only hastened it. If they could not take the city by surprise, 
they might, as we have seen the King of Navarre do at Cahors, 
fill up the moats with fascines and burst open the gates with 
petards. 

The cannon from the ramparts continued to fire, but in the 
darkness took scarcely any effect, and after having replied to 
the cries of their adversaries, the French advanced silently to- 
wards the ramparts with that fiery intrepidity which they always 
show in attack. 

But all at once, doors and posterns opened, and from all 
sides poured out armed men, if not with the fierce impetuosity 
of the French, with a firmness which rendered them massive as 
a rolling wall. 

It was the Flemings, who advanced in close ranks, and com- 
pact masses, above which the cannon continued to thunder, 
although with more noise than effect. Then the combat began 
hand to hand, foot to foot, sword to sword, and the flash of 
pistols lighted up faces red with blood. 

But not a cry — not a murmur — not a complaint was heard, 
and the Flemings and French fought with equal rage. The 
Flemings were furious at having to fight, for fighting was neither 
their profession nor their pleasure; and the French were 
fdrious at being attacked when they meant to have taken the 
initiative. 

While the combat was raging furiously, explosions were heard 
near St. Marie, and a light rose over the city, like a crest ol 
flames. It was Joyeuse attacking and trying to force the barrier 
across the Scheldt, and who would soon penetrate into the city, 
at least, so the French hoped. 

But it was not so ; Joyeuse had weighed anchor and sailed, 
and was making rapid progress, favoured by the west wind. All 


FRENCH AND FLEMINGS. 


281 


was ready for action ; the sailors, armed with their boarding 
cutlasses, were eager for the combat ; the gunners stood ready 
with lighted matches ; while some picked men, hatchet in hand, 
stood ready to jump on the hostile ships and destroy the chains 
and cords. 

The seven ships advanced in silence, disposed in the form of 
a wedge, of which the admiral’s galley formed the point. Joy- 
euse himself had taken his first lieutenant’s place, and was lean- 
ing over the bowsprit, trying to pierce the fogs of the river and 
the darkness of the night. Soon, through this double obscurity, 
he saw the pier extending itself darkly across the stream ; it ap- 
peared deserted, but, in that land of ambushes, there seemed 
something terrifying in this desertion. 

However, they continued to advance, and soon were within 
sight of the barrier, scarcely ten cable lengths off ; they ap- 
proached nearer and nearer, and yet not a single “ qui vive !” 
struck on their ears. 

The sailors only saw in this silence a carelessness which re- 
joiced them ; but their young admiral, more far-seeing, feared 
some ruse. At last the prow of the admiral’s ship touched the 
two ships which formed the centre of the barrier, and made the 
whole line, which was fastened together by chains, tremble. 

Suddenly, as the bearers of the hatchets received the order to 
board and cut the chains, a crowd of grappling irons, thrown by 
invisible hands, seized hold of the French vessels. The Flem- 
ings had forestalled the intended movement of the French. 
Joyeuse believed that his enemies were offering him a mortal 
combat, and he accepted it with alacrity. He also threw grap- 
pling-irons, and the two lines of ships were firmly bound to- 
gether. Then, seizing a hatchet, he was the first to jump on a 
ship, crying, “Board them ! board them !” All his crew followed 
him, officers and men, uttering the same cry ; but no cry replied 
to them, no force opposed their advance. 

Only they saw three boats full of men gliding silently over 
the water, like three sea-birds. 

The assailants rested motionless on the ships which they had 
conquered without a struggle. 

All at once Joyeuse heard under his feet a crackling sound, 
and a smell of sulphur filled the air. A thought crossed his 
mind, and he ran and opened a hatchway ; the vessel was burn- 
ing. A cry of, “ To our ships !” sounded through all the line. 
Each climbed back again more quickly than he had come in ; 


282 


THE FOR TV- FIVE GUARDSMEN . 


but Joyeuse, this time, was the last. Just as he reached his 
galley, the flames burst out over the whole bridge of boats, like 
twenty volcanoes, of which each ship or boat was the crater ; 
the order was instantly given to cut the ropes and break the 
chains and grappling-irons, and the sailors worked with the ra- 
pidity of men who knew that their safety depended on their ex- 
ertions. But the work was immense ; perhaps they might 
have detached those thrown by the enemy on their ships, but 
they had also to detach those which they themselves had 
thrown. 

All at once twenty explosions were heard, and each of the 
French ships trembled to its centre. It was the cannons that 
defended the port, and which, fully charged and then aban- 
doned by the Antwerpians, exploded as the fire gained on them, 
breaking everything within their reach. 

The flames mounted like gigantic serpents along the masts, 
rolled themselves round the yards, then, with their forked 
tongues, came to lick the sides of the French vessels. 

Joyeuse, with his magnificent armour covered with gold, 
giving calmly, and in an imperious voice, his orders in the midst 
of the flames, looked like a fabulous salamander covered with 
scales, and at every movement threw off a shower of sparks. 
But the explosions became louder than ever ; the gun-room had 
taken fire, and the vessels were flying in pieces. 

Joyeuse had done his best to free himself, but in vain ; the* 
flames had reached the French ships, and showers of fire fell 
about him. The Flemish barrier was broken, and the French 
burning ships drifted to the shore. Joyeuse saw that he could 
not save his ships, and he gave orders to lower the boats, and 
land on the left bank. This was quickly done, and all the 
sailors were embarked to a man before Joyeuse quitted his 
galley. His sang-froid kept every one in order, and each man 
landed with a sword or an axe in his hand. Before he had 
reached the shore, the fire reached the magazine of his ship, 
which blew up, lighting the whole horizon. 

Meanwhile, the artillery from the ramparts had ceased, not 
that the combat had abated, but that it was so close it was im- 
possible to fire on enemies without firing on friends also. 

The Calvinist cavalry had charged, and done wonders. Be- 
fore the swords of its cavaliers a pathway opened, but the 
wounded Flemings pierced the horses with their large cutlasses, 
and in spite of this brilliant charge, a Uttle confusion showed it- 


FRENCH AND FLEMINGS. 


28 3 


self in the French columns, and they only kept their ground in- 
stead of advancing, while from the gates of the city new troops 
continually poured out. All at once, almost under the walls of 
the city, a cry of “ Anjou ! France !” was heard behind the mass 
of the Antwerpians. This was Joyeuse and his 1500 sailors, 
armed with hatchets and cutlasses. They had to revenge their 
fleet in flames and 200 of their companions burned or drowned. 

No one could manage his long sword better than Joyeuse : 
every blow cut open a head, every thrust took effect. The 
group of Flemings on which he fell were destroyed like a field 
of corn by a legion of locusts. 'Delighted with their first suc- 
cess, they continued to push on ; but the Calvinist cavalry, sur- 
rounded by troops, began to lose ground. M. de St. Aignan’s 
infantry, however, kept their place. 

The prince had seen the burning of the fleet, and heard the 
reports of the cannon and the explosions, without suspecting 
anything but a fierce combat, which must terminate in victory 
for Joyeuse; for how could a few Flemish ships fight against 
the French fleet ? He expected, then, every minute a diver- 
sion on the part of Joyeuse, when the news was brought to 
him that the fleet was destroyed, and Joyeuse and his men 
fighting in the midst of the Flemings. He now began to feel 
very anxious, the fleet being the means of retreat, and con- 
sequently the safety of the army. He sent orders to the Cal- 
vinist cavalry to try a fresh charge, and men and horses, almost 
exhausted, rallied to attack the Antwerpians afresh. The voice 
of Joyeuse was heard in the midst of the melee crying, “Hold 
firm, M. de St. Aignan. France ! France !” and, like a reaper 
cutting a field of corn, his sword flew round, and cut down its 
harvest of men ; the delicate favourite — the Sybarite — seemed 
to have put on with his cuirass the strength of a Hercules ; and 
the infantry, hearing his voice above all the noise, and seeing 
his sword flashing, took fresh courage, and, like the cavalry, 
made a new effort, and returned to the combat. 

But now the person that had been called monseigneur came 
out of the city on a beautiful black horse. He wore black 
armour, and was followed by 300 well-mounted cavaliers, whom 
the Prince of Orange had placed at his disposal. 

By a parallel gate came out William himself, with a picked 
body of infantry who had not yet appeared. 

Monseigneur hastened where he was most wanted, that is to 
say, where Joyeuse was fighting with his sailors. 


284 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN 


The Flemings recognised him, and opened their ranks, cry- 
ing, joyfully, “ Monseigneur ! monseigneur !” Joyeuse and his 
men saw the movement, heard the cries, and all at once found 
themselves opposed to a new troop. Joyeuse pushed his 
horse towards the black knight, and their swords met. Joyeuse 
was confident in his armour and his science, but all his thrusts 
were skilfully parried, and one of those of his adversary touched 
him, and in spite of his armour, drew some drops of blood from 
his shoulder. 

“ Ah !” cried the young admiral. “ this man is a Frenchman, 
and, what is more, he has studied fencing under the same master 
as I have.” 

At these words the unknown turned away, and tried to find a 
new antagonist. 

“If you are French,” cried Joyeuse, “you are a traitor, for 
you fight against your king, your country, and your flag.” . 

The unknown only replied by attacking Joyeuse with fresh 
fury ; but now Joyeuse was on his guard, and knew with what 
a skilful swordsman he had to deal. He parried two or three 
thrusts with as much skill as fury, and it was now the stranger 
who made a step back. 

“See !” cried Joyeuse, “what one can do fighting for one’s 
country ! A pure heart and a loyal arm suffice to defend a head 
without a helmet, a face without a visor ;” and he threw his 
helmet far from him, displaying his noble and beautiful head, 
with eyes sparkling with pride, youth and anger. 

His antagonist forebore answer, uttered a cry, and struck at 
his bare head. 

“ Ah !” cried Joyeuse, parrying the blow, “ I said you were a 
traitor, and as a traitor you shall die. I will kill you, and carry 
off this helmet which hides and defends you, and hang you to 
the first tree that I see.” 

But at this moment a cavalier cried, 

“ Monseigneur, no more skirmishing; your presence is wanted 
over there.” 

Glancing towards the point indicated, the unknown saw the 
Flemings giving way before the Calvinist cavalry. 

“ Yes.” cried he, “ those are the men I wanted.” 

At this moment so many cavaliers pressed on the sailors, that 
they made their first step in retreat. 

The black cavalier profited by this movement to disappear in 
the melee* 


FRENCH AND FLEMINGS. 


285 


A quarter of an hour after the French began to give way, 
M. de St. Aignan tried to retreat in good order, but a last troop 
of 2000 infantry and 500 horse came out fresh from the city, 
and fell on this harassed and already retreating army. It was 
the old band of the Prince of Orange, which had fought in 
turns against the Due d’Alva, Don John, Requesens, and 
Alexander Farnese. In spite of the coolness of the chiefs and 
the bravery of many, a frightful rout commenced. 

At this moment the unknown fell again on the fugitives, and 
once more met Joyeuse with his now diminished band. The 
young admiral was mounted on his third horse, two having 
been killed under him ; his sword was broken, and he had taken 
from a sailor one of their heavy hatchets, which he whirled 
round his head with the greatest apparent ease. From time to 
time he turned and faced his enemy, like the wild boar who 
cannot make up his mind to fly, and turns desperately on hrs 
hunter. The Flemings, who by monseigneur’s advice had 
fought without cuirasses, were active in the pursuit, and gave no 
rest to the Angevin army. Something like remorse seized the 
unknown at the sight of this disaster. 

“ Enough, gentlemen,” cried he, in French, “ to-night they 
are driven from Antwerp, and in a week will be driven from 
Flanders ; ask no more of the God of battles.” 

“Ah ! he is French,” cried Joyeuse; “ I guessed it, traitor. 
Ah ! be cursed, and may you die the death of a traitor.” 

This furious imprecation seemed to disconcert the unknown 
more than a thousand swords raised against him ; he turned, 
and conqueror as he was, fled as rapidly as the conquered. But 
this retreat of a single man changed nothing in the state of 
affairs. Fear is contagious, it seized the entire army, and the 
soldiers began to fly like madmen. The horses went fast, in 
spite of fatigue, for they also felt the influence of fear ; the men 
dispersed to seek a shelter, and in some hours the army, as an 
army, existed no longer. This was the time when the dykes 
were to be opened. From Lier to Termonde, from Haesdouk 
to Malines — each little river, swollen by its tributaries — each 
canal overflowed, and spread over the flat country its contingent 
of furious water. 

Thus, when the fugitive French began to stop, having tired 
out the Antwerpians, whom they had seen return to the town, 
followed by the soldiers of the Prince of Orange — when those 
who had escaped from the carnage of the night believed them- 


286 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


selves saved, and stopped to breathe for an instant, some with 
a prayer, and others with a curse, then a new enemy, blind and 
pitiless, was preparing for them. Joyeuse had commanded his 
sailors, now reduced to eight hundred, to make a halt ; they 
were the only persons who had preserved some order, the Comte 
de St. Aignan having vainly tried to rally his foot soldiers. 

The Due d’ Anjou, at the head of the fugitives, mounted on 
an excellent horse, and accompanied by a single servant, pushed 
forward without appearing to think of anything. 

“ He has no heart,” cried some. 

“His sang-froid is magnificent,” said others. 

Some hours of repose, from two to six in the morning, re- 
stored to the infantry the strength to continue their retreat ; but 
provisions were wanting. 

As for the horses, they seemed more fatigued than the men, 
and could scarcely move, for they had eaten nothing since the 
day before. 

The fugitives hoped to gain Brussels, where the duke had 
many partisans, although they were not free from anxiety as to 
their reception. At Brussels, which was about eight leagues off, 
they would find food for the famishing troops, and a place of 
security from whence to recommence the campaign at a more 
favourable time. M. d’ Anjou breakfasted in a peasant’s hut, 
between Heboken and Heckhout. It was empty, but a fire still 
burned in the grate. 

The soldiers and officers wished to imitate their chief, and 
spread themselves about the village, but found with a surprise 
mingled with terror that every house was deserted and empty. 

M. de St. Aignan, who had aided them in their search, now 
called to the officers : 

“ March on, gentlemen.” 

“ But we are tired and dying with hunger, colonel.” 

“Yes, but you are alive ; and if you remain here another 
hour you will be dead. Perhaps it is already too late.” 

M. de St. Aignan knew nothing ; but he suspected some great 
danger. They went on ; but two or three thousand men 
straggled from the main body, or, worn out with fatigue, lay 
down on the grass, or at the foot of a tree, wearied, desolate, 
and despairing. Scarcely three thousand able men remained to 
the Due d’Anjou. 


THE TRAVELLERS. 


207 


CHAPTER LXVI 

THE TRAVELLERS. 

While these disasters, the forerunners of a still greater one, 
were taking place, two travellers, mounted on excellent horses, 
left Brussels on a fine night, and rode towards Mechlin. They 
rode side by side, without any apparent arms but a large 
Flemish knife, of which the handle appeared in the belt of one 
of them. They rode on, each occupied with thoughts perhaps 
the same, without speaking a word. They looked like those 
commercial travellers who at that time carried on an extensive 
trade between France and Flanders. Whoever had met them 
trotting so peaceably along the road would have taken them for 
honest men, anxious to find a bed after their day’s work. How- 
ever, it was only necessary to overhear a few sentences of their 
conversation to lose any such opinion suggested by their ap- 
pearance. They were about half a league from Brussels, when 
the tallest of them said : 

“ Madame, you were quite right to set off to-night ; we shall 
gain seven leagues by it, and shall probably arrive at Mechlin 
by the time the result of the attack on Antwerp is known. In 
two days of short marches, and you must take easy stages, we 
shall reach Antwerp.” 

The person who was called madame, in spite of her male 
costume, replied in a voice calm, grave, and sweet : 

“ My friend, believe me, God will tire of protecting this 
wicked prince, and will strike him cruelly ; let us hasten to put 
our projects into execution, for I am not one of those who be- 
lieve in fatality, and I think that men have perfect freedcm in 
will and deed. If we leave his punishment to God, and do 
not act ourselves, it was not worth while living so unhappily 
until now.” 

At this moment a blast of north wind, cold and biting, swept 
across the plain. 

“You shiver, madame,” said the other traveller; “take your 
cloak.” 

“ No, thank you, Remy ; I no longer feel pain of Dody or 
mind.” 

Remy rode on silently, only now and then stopping and looking 
back. 


288 


THE FORTY- FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


“ You see no one behind us ?” asked she, after one of these 
halts. 

“No one, madame.” 

“ That cavalier whom we met at Valenciennes, and who in- 
quired about us, after looking at us so curiously ?” 

“ He is not here, madame.” 

“ But I fancied I saw him again near Mons.” 

“ And I, madame, am sure I saw him just before we entered 
Brussels/’ 

“ Brussels ?” 

“ Yes ; but he must have stopped there/’ 

“ Remy,” said Diana, drawing near him, as if even on that 
lonely road she feared to be overheard, “ did he not seem to 
you like (in figure, at least, for I did not see his face) that un- 
happy young man ?” 

“ Oh ! no, madame, not at all ; and besides, how could he 
have guessed that we had left Paris, and were travelling along 
this road ?” 

“But he found us out when we changed our house in 
Paris.” 

“ No, madame, I am sure he did not follow us ; and, indeed, 
I believe he had resolved on a desperate course as regards him- 
self.” 

“ Alas ! Remy, every one has his own share of suffering. I 1 
trust God will console this poor youth.” 

Remy replied with a sigh, and they went on with no other 
sound than that of their horses’ feet on the hard road. Two 
hours passed thus. Just as they were about to enter Vilvoide, 
Remy turned his head, for he heard the sound of horses’ feet 
behind them. He stopped and listened, but could see nothing. 
His eyes uselessly tried to pierce through the darkness of the 
night, and as he no longer heard any sounds, they rode on and 
entered the town. 

“ Madame,” said he, “ if you will take my advice, you will 
stay here ; daylight will soon appear, the horses are tired, and 
you yourself need repose.” 

“ Remy, you are anxious about something. 

“Yes, about your health, madame. - Believe me, a woman 
cannot support so much fatigue ; I can scarcely do so my- 
self.” 

“ As you please, Remy.” 

“ Well, then, enter that narrow street. I see a light 


at the 


THE TRA FELLERS. 289 

end of it, which must proceed from an inn. Be quick, I beg 
you.” 

You have heard something?” 

“ I thought I heard a horse’s feet. I am not sure, but I will 
stay behind a minute to find out.” 

The lady, without replying, went on, and Remy got off his 
horse and let him follow her, while he hid himself behind an 
immense post and waited. The lady knocked at the door of 
the inn, behind which, according to the hospitable custom of 
the country, watched, or rather slept, a maid-servant. The gill 
woke up and received the traveller with perfect good-humour, 
and then opened the stable-door for the two horses. 

“ I am v\aiting for my companion,” said Diana ; “ let me sit 
by the fire; I shall not go to bed until he comes.” 

The servant threw some straw to the horses, shut the stable- 
door, then returned to the kitchen, put a chair by the fire, 
snuffed the candle with her fingers, and went to sleep again. 

Meanwhile Remy was watching for the arrival of the traveller 
whose horse he had heard. He saw him enter the town and 
go on slowly, and seeming to listen ; then, seeing the inn, he 
appeared to hesitate whether to go there or to continue his 
journey. He stopped close to Remy, who laid his hand on his 
knife. 

“It is he again,” thought Remy, “and he is following us. 
What can he want ?” 

After a minute the traveller murmured in a low voice, 
" They must have gone on, and so will I,” and he rode for- 
ward. 

“ To-morrow we will change our route,” thought Remy. 

And he rejoined Diana, who was waiting impatiently for 
him. 

“ Well,” said she softly, “ a^e w v e followed ?” 

“ There is no one, I was wrong ; you may sleep in perfect 
safety, madame.” 

“I am not sleepy, Remy.” 

“ At least have supper, madame ; you have scarcely eaten 
anything.” 

“Willingly, Remy.” ^ 

They reawakened the poor servant, who got up as good- 
humouredly as before, and hearing what they wanted, took from 
che cupboard a piece of salt pork, a cold leveret, and some 

19 


290 


THE FORTY- FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


sweets, which she set before them, together with a frothing jug 
of Louvain beer. 

Remy sat down with Diana, who drank half a glass of beer, 
and ate a piece of bread. Remy did the same, and then they 
both rose. 

“ Are you not going to eat any more ?” asked the girl. 

“ No, thank you, we have done.” 

“ Will you not eat any meat ? it is very nice.” 

“ I am sure it is excellent, but we are not hungry.” 

The girl clasped her hands in astonishment at this strange 
abstinence ; it was not thus she was used to see travellers 
eat. 

*Remy threw a piece of money on the table. 

“ Oh !” said the girl, “ I cannot charge all that ; six farthings 
would be all your bill.” 

“ Keep it all, my girl,” said Diana ; “ it is true my brother 
and I eat little, but we pay the same as others.” 

The servant became red with joy. 

“ Tell me, my girl,” said Remy, “ is there any cross-road from 
here to Mechlin ?” 

“ Yes, monsieur, but it is very bad, while the regular road is 
a very fine one.” 

“ Yes, my child, I know that, but we wish to travel by the 
other.” 

“ Oh ! I told you, monsieur, because, as your companion is 
a lady, the road would not do for her.” 

“Why not?” 

“ Because to-night a great number of people will cross the 
country to go to Brussels.” 

“ To Brussels ?” 

“ Yes ; it is a temporary emigration.” 

“ For what reason ?” 

“ I do not know; they had orders.” 

“ From whom — the Prince of Orange ?” 

“No; from monseigneur.” 

“Who is he?” 

“ I do not know, monsieur.” 

“ And who are the emigrants ?” 

“ The inhabitants of the country and of the villages which 
have no dykes or ramparts.” 

“ It is strange.” 

“ We ourselves,” said the girl, “ are to set out at daybreak* 


THE TRAVELLERS. 


291 


as well as all the other people in the town. Yesterday, at 
eleven o’clock, all the cattle were sent to Brussels by canals and 
cross roads ; therefore on the road of which you speak there 
must be great numbers of horses, carts, and people.” 

“I should have thought the great road better for all that.” 

“ I do not know ; it was the order.” 

“ But we can go on to Mechlin, I suppose ?” 

“ I should think so, unless you will do like every one else, 
and go to Brussels.” 

“ No, no, we will go on at once to Mechlin,” said Diana, 
rising ; u open the stable, if you please, my good girl.” 

“ Danger every way,” thought Remy ; “ however, the young 
man is before us.” And as the horses had not been unsaddled, 
they mounted again, and the rising sun found them on the 
banks of the Dyle. 


CHAPTER LX VII. 

EXPLANATION. 

The danger that Remy braved was a real one, for the travel- 
ler, after having passed the village and gone on for a quarter of 
a league, and seeing no one before him, made up his mind that 
those whom he sought had remained behind in the village. He 
would not retrace bis steps, but lay down in a field of clover ; 
having made his horse descend into one of those deep ditches 
which in Flanders serve as divisions between the properties, he 
was therefore able to see without being seen. This young man, 
as Remy knew, and Diana suspected, was Henri du Bouchage, 
whom a strange fatality threw once more into the presence of 
the woman he had determined to fly. After his conversation 
with Remy, on the threshold of the mysterious house, that is 
to say, after the loss of all his hopes, he had returned to the 
Hotel Joyeuse, quite decided to put an end to a life which he 
felt to be so miserable, and as a gentleman, and one who had 
his name to keep'untarnished, he decided on the glorious suicide 
of the field of Battle. 

Therefore, as they were fighting in Flanders, and his bro- 
ther had a command there, Henri, on the following day, left 

19 — 2 


292 


THE FORTY- FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


his hotel twenty hours after the departure of Diana and 
Remy 

Letters from Flanders announced the intended coup de main 
on Antwerp, and Henri hoped to arrive in time for it. He 
pleased himself with the idea that he should die sword in hand, 
in his brother’s arms, under a French flag, and that his death 
would be talked* about until the sound even reached the soli- 
tude in which the mysterious lady lived. Noble follies ! glorious, 
yet sad dreams ! 

Just as — full of these thoughts — he came in sight of Valen- 
ciennes, from whose church tower eight o’clock was sounding, 
he perceived that they were about to close the gates. He 
pushed on, and nearly overturned, o:. the drawbridge, a man 
who was fastening the girths of his horse. Henri stopped to 
make excuses to the man, who turned at the sound of his voice, 
and then quickly turned away again. Henri started, but imme- 
diately thought, “ I must be mad ; Remy here, whom I left 
four days ago in the Rue de Bussy ; here now, without his mis- 
tress. Really, grief must be turning my brain and making me 
see everything»in the form of my own fancies.” And he con- 
tinued his way, convinced that his idea had been pure fancy. 
At the first hotel that he came to he stopped, gave his horse 
co a servant, and sat down on a bench before the door, while 
they prepared his bed and supper. But as he sat there he 
saw two travellers approaching, and this time he saw more 
clearly. 

“ Now,” murmured he, “ I do not dream, and still I think I 
see Remy. I cannot remain in this uncertainty ; I must clear 
up my doubts.” 

He got up and ran down the road after them, but they had 
disappeared. Then he went to all the hotels and questioned 
the servants, and after much search discovered that two cava- 
liers had been seen going towards a small inn in the Rue de 
Beffroi. The landlord was just shutting the doors when Henri 
entered. Whilst the man offered him rooms and refreshment, 
he looked round, and saw on the top of the staircase Remy 
going up, lighted by a servant; of his companion he saw 
nothing. Du Bouchage had no longer any doubts, and he 
asked himself, with a dreadful sinking of the heart, why Remy 
had left his mistress and was travelling without her ; for Henri 
had been so occupied in identifying Remy, that he had scarcely 
looked at his companion. The next morning when he rose, he 


EXP: ANA T10N. 


293 


was much surprised to learn that the two travellers had obtained 
from the governor permission to go out ; and that, contrary to 
all custom, the gates had been opened for them. Thus, as they 
had set out at one o’clock, they had six hours’ start of him. 
Henri put his horse to the gallop and passed the travellers at 
Mons. He saw Remy ; but Remy must have been a sorcerer 
to know him, for he had on a soldier’s great coat and rode 
another horse. Nevertheless, Remy’s companion, at a word 
from him, turned away his head before Henry could see his 
face. But the young man did not lose courage ; he watched 
them to their hotel, and then questioning, with the aid of an 
irresistible auxiliary, learned that Remy’s companion was a very 
handsome, but very silent and sad-looking young man. 

Henri trembled. “Can it be a woman?” asked he. 

“ It is possible,” replied the host; “many women travel thus 
disguised just now, to go and rejoin their lovers in Flanders ; 
but it is our business to see nothing, and we never do.” 

Henri felt heart broken at this explanation. Was Remy, 
indeed, accompanying his mistress dressed as a cavalier ; and 
was she, as the host suggested, going to rejoin her lover in 
Flanders? Had Remy lied when he spoke of an eternal regret ? 
was this fable of a past love, which had clothed his mistress for 
ever in mourning, only his invention to get rid of an impor- 
tunate watcher ? 

“ If it be so,” cried Henri, “ the time will come when I shall 
have courage to address this woman and reproach her with all 
the subterfuges, which lower her whom I had placed so high 
above all ordinary mortals ; and seeing nearer this brilliant 
envelope of a common mind, perhaps I shall fall of myself from 
the height of my illusions and my love.” 

And the young man tore his hair in despair at the thought 
of losing the love which was killing him ; for a dead heart is 
better than an empty one. So he continued to follow them, 
and to wonder at the cause which took to Flanders, at the same 
time as himself, these two beings so indispensable to his 
existence. 

At Brussels he gathered information as to the Due d’Anjou’s 
intended campaign. The Flemings were too hostile to the 
duke to receive well a Frenchman of distinction, and were too 
proud of their position to refrain from humiliating a little this 
gentleman who came from France asid questioned them in a 
pure Parisian accent, which always seemed ridiculous to the 


294 


THE F0RTY-E1VE GUARDSMEN. 


Belgians. Henri began to conceive serious fears with reference 
to this expedition, in which his brother was to bear so promi- 
nent a part, and he resolved in consequence to push on rapidly 
to Antwerp. It was a constant surprise to him to see Remy 
and his companion, in spite of their desire not to be seen, con- 
tinue to follow the same road as himself. 

Henri, now hidden in the clover field, felt certain of seeing 
the face of the young man who accompanied Remy, and thus 
putting an end to all his doubts. As they passed, unsuspicious 
of his vicinity, Diana was occupied in braiding up her hair, 
which she had not dared to untie at the inn. 

Henri recognised her, and nearly fainted. The travellers 
passed on, and then anger took, in Henri’s mind, the place of 
the goodness and patience he had exercised while he believed 
Remy and the lady sincere towards him. But after the pro- 
testations of Remy, this journey seemed to him a species of 
treason. 

When he had recovered a little from the blow, he rose, shook 
back his beautiful light hair, and mounted his horse, determined 
no longer to take those precautions that respect had made him 
hitherto observe, and he began to follow the travellers openly, 
and with his face uncovered. No more cloak nor hood, no 
more stops and hesitation; the road belonged to him as to 
them, and he rode on, regulating the pace of his horse by that 
of theirs. He did not mean to speak to them, but only to let 
them see him. .Remy soon perceived him, and, seeing him 
thus openly advance without any further attempt at conceal- 
ment, grew troubled ; Diana noticed it and turned also. 

“ Is it not that young man following us ?” 

Remy, still trying to reassure her, said, “ I do not think so, 
madame. As well as I can judge by the dress, it is some young 
Walloon soldier, going probably to Amsterdam, and passing by 
the theatre of war to seek adventures.” 

‘‘ I feel uneasy about him, Remy.” 

“ Reassure yourself, madame, had he been really the Comte 
du Bouchage, he would have spoken to us ; you know how 
persevering he was.” 

“I know also that he was respectful, Remy, or I should 
never have troubled myself about him, but simply told you to 
get rid of h'm.” 

“ Well, madame, if he be so respectful, you would have no 
more to fear from him on this road than in the Rue de Bussy." 


EXPLANATION. 295 

“Nevertheless, Remy, let us change our horses here at 
Mechlin, in order to get on faster to Antwerp.” 

“ On the contrary, madame, I should say, do not let us entef 
Mechlin at all ; our horses are good, let us push on to that little 
village which is, I think, called Villebrock ; in that manner we 
shall avoid the town, with its questioners and curious gazers.” 

“Go on, then, Remy.” 

They turned to the left, taking a road hardly made, but which 
visibly led to Villebrock ; Henri also quitted the road, and 
turned down the lane, still keeping his distance from them. 

Remy’s disquietude showed itself in his constantly turning 
to look behind him. At last they arrived at Villebrock. Of 
200 houses which this village contained, not one was inhabited ; 
some forgotten dogs and lost cats ran wildly about the solitude, 
the former calling for their masters by long howls. Remy 
knocked at twenty doors, but found no one. Henri on his 
side, who seemed the shadow of the travellers, knocked at the 
first house as uselessly as they had done, then, divining that the 
war was the cause of this desertion, waited to continue his 
journey until the travellers should have decided what to do. 

They fed their horses with some corn which they found in an 
inn, and then Remy said — 

“ Madame, we are no longer in a friendly country, nor in an 
ordinary situation ; we must not expose ourselves uselessly. 
We shall certainly fall in with some French, Spanish, or Flemish 
band, for in the present state of Flanders, adventures of all 
kinds must be rife. If you were a man I should speak dif- 
ferently ; but you are a young and beautiful woman, and would 
run a double risk for life and honour.” 

“ My life is nothing,” said she. 

“On the contrary, madame, it is everything. You live for a 
purpose.” 

“ Well, then, what do you propose ? Think and act for me, 
Remy.” 

“Then, madame, let us remain here. I see many houses 
which would afford us a sure shelter. I have arms, and we will 
defend or hide ourselves, as we shall be strong or weak.” 

“ No, Remy, no. I must go on ; nothing must stop me; and 
if I had fears, they would be for you.” 

“We will go on then.” 

They rode on, therefore, without another word, and Henri du 
Bouchage followed. 


296 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN . 


CHAPTER LXVIII. 

THE WATER. 

As the travellers advanced, the country took an equally strange 
aspect, for it was utterly deserted, as well as the towns and 
villages. Nowhere were the calves to be seen grazing in the 
meadows, nor the goat perched on the top of the mountain, or 
nibbling the green shoots of the brier or young vine ; nowhere 
the shepherd with his flock ; nowhere the cart with his driver ; 
no foreign merchant passing from one country to another with 
his pack on his back ; no ploughman singing his harsh song or 
cracking his long whip. As far as the eye could e over the 
magnificent plains, the little hills and the woods, not a human 
figure was to be seen, not a voice to be heard. It seemed like 
the earth before the creation of animals or men. The only 
people who animated this dreary solitude were Remy and his 
companion, and Henri following behind and preserving ever 
the same distance. The night came on dark and cold, and the 
north-east wind whistled in the air, and filled the solitude with 
its menacing sound. 

Remy stopped his companion, and putting his hand on the 
bridle of her horse, said, 

“ Madame, you know how inaccessible I am to fear ; you 
know I would not turn my back to save my life ; but this evening 
some strange feeling possesses me, and forbids me to go further. 
Madame, call it terror, timidity, panic, what you will, I confess 
that for the first time in my life I am afraid.” 

The lady turned. 

“ Is he still there ?” she said. 

“ Oh ! I was not thinking of him ; think no more of him, 
madams, 1 beg of you; we need not fear a single man. No, 
the danger that I fear or rather feel, or divine with a sort of 
instinct, is unknown to me, and therefore I dread it. Look, 
madame, do you see those willows bending in the wind ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ By their side I see a little house : I beg you, let us go 
there. If it is inhabited, we will ask for hospitality; and if 
not, we will take possession of it. I beg you to consent, 
madame.” 

Retny’s emotion and troubled voice decided Diana to yield, 


THE WATER, 


297 


so she turned her horse in the direction indicated by him. Some 
minutes after, they knocked at the door. A stream (which ran 
into the Nethe, a little river about a mile off), bordered with 
reeds and grassy banks, bathed the feet of the willows with its 
murmuring waters. Behind the house, which was built of 
bricks, and covered with tiles, was a little garden, encircled 
by a quickset hedge. 

All was empty, solitary, and deserted, and no one replied to 
the blows struck by the travellers. Remy did not hesitate ; he 
drew his knife, cut a branch of willow, with which he pushed 
back the bolt and opened the door. The lock, the clumsy 
work of a neighbouring blacksmith, yielded almost without re- 
sistance. Remy entered quickly, followed by Diana, then, clos- 
ing the door again, he drew a massive bolt, and thus intrenched, 
seemed to breathe more freely. Feeling about, he found a bed, 
a chair, and a table in an upper room. Here he installed his 
mistress, and then, returning to the lower room, placed himself 
at the window, to watch the movements of Du Bouchage. 

His reflections were as sombre as those of Remy. “ Cer- 
tainly,” said he to himself, “some danger unknown to us, but 
of which the inhabitants are not ignorant, is about to fall on the 
country. War ravages the land ; perhaps the French have 
taken, or are about to assault Antwerp, and the peasants, seized 
with terror, have gone to take refuge in the towns.” 

But this reasoning, however plausible, did not quite satisfy 
him. Then he thought, “ But what are Remy and his mistress 
doing here ? What imperious necessity drags them towards 
this danger ? Oh, I will know ; the time has come to speak to 
this woman, and to clear away all my doubts. Never shall I 
find a better opportunity.” 

He approached the house, and then suddenly stopped, with 
a hesitation common to hearts in love. 

“ No,” said he, “ no, I will be a martyr to the end. Besides, 
is she not mistress of her own actions ? And, perhaps, sh 
does not even know what fable was invented by Remy. Oh, u 
is he alone that I hate ; he who assured me that she loved no 
one. But still let me be just. Ought this man for me, whom 
he did not know, to have betrayed his mistress’s secrets ? No, 
no. All that remains for me now is to follow this woman to 
the camp, to see her hang her arms round some one’s neck, and 
hear her say, ‘See what I have suffered, and how I love you/ 
Well, I will follow her there, see what I dread to see, and die 


258 THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN, 

of it ; it will be trouble saved for the musket or cannon. Alas 1 
I did not seek this ; I went calmly to meet a glorious death, 
and I wished to die with her name on my lips. It is not so to 
be ; I am destined to a death full of bitterness and torture. 
Well, I accept it.” 

Then, recalling his days of waiting, and his nights of anguish 
before the inexorable house, he found that he was less to be 
pitied here than at Paris, and he went on. 

“ I will stay here, and take these trees for a shelter, and then 
I can hear her voice when she speaks, and see her shadow on 
the window.” 

He lay down, then, under the willows, listening, with a melan- 
choly impossible to describe, to the murmur of the water that 
flowed at his side. All at once he started ; the noise of cannon 
was brought distinctly to him by the wind. 

“ Ah !” said he, “ I shall arrive too late ; they are attacking 
Antwerp.” 

His first idea was to rise, mount his horse, and ride on as 
quickly as possible ; but to do this he must quit the lady, and 
die in doubt, so he remained. 

Daring two hours he lay there, listening to the reports. He 
did not guess that what he heard was his brother’s ships blowing 
up. At last, about two o’clock, all grew quiet. 

“ Now,” thought Henri, “ Antwerp is taken, and my brother 
is a conqueror ; but after Antwerp will come Ghent, and then 
Bruges ; I shall not want an occasion for a glorious death. But 
before I die I must know what this woman wants in the French 
camp.” 

He lay still, and had just fallen asleep, when his horse, which 
was grazing quietly near him, pricked up his ears and neighed 
loudly. 

Henri opened his eyes. The animal had his head turned 
to the breeze, which had changed to the south-east, as if listen- 
ing. 

“ What is it, my good horse ?” said the young man ; “ have 
you seen some animal which frightened you, or do you regret 
the shelter of your stable ?” 

The animal stood still, looking towards Lier, with his eyes 
fixed and his nostrils distended, and listening. 

“ Ah !” said Hei ri, “ it is more serious ; perhaps some troops 
of wolves followi ng the army to devour the corpses.” 

The horse neigh ;d and began to run forwards to the west, 


THE WATER. 


2^9 


but his master caught the bridle and jumped on his back, and 
then was able to keep him quiet. But after a minute, Henri 
himself began to hear what the horse had heard. A long 
murmur, like the wind, but more solemn, which seemed to 
come from different points of the compass, from south to 
north. 

“What is it?” said Henri ; “ can it be the wind ? No, it is 
the wind which brings this sound, and I hear the two distinctly. 
An army in march, perhaps? But no ; I should hear the 
sound of voices and of regular marching. Is it the crackling 
of a fire ? No, there is no light in the horizon ; the heaven 
seems even to grow darker.” 

The noise redoubled and became distinct ; it was an inces- 
sant growling and rolling, as if thousands of cannon were being 
dragged over a paved road. Henri thought of this. “ But 
no,” said he, “ there is no paved road near.” 

The noise continued to increase, and Henri put his horse to 
the gallop and gained an eminence. 

“ What do I see ?” cried he, as he attained the summit. 
What he saw his horse had seen before him ; for he had only 
been able to make him advance by furious spurring, and when 
they arrived at the top of the hill he reared so as nearly to 
fall backwards. They saw in the horizon an infinite body 
rolling over the plain, and visibly and rapidly approaching. 
The young man looked in wonder at this strange phenomenon, 
when, looking back to the \ lace he had come from, he saw the 
plain beginning to be covered with water, and that the little 
river had overflowed, and was beginning to cover the reeds 
which a quarter of an hour before had stood up stifly on its 
banks. 

“ Fool that I am,” cried he, “ I never thought of it. The 
water ! the water ! The Flemings have broken their dykes !” 

Henri flew to the house, and knocked furiously at the 
door. 

“ Open ! open !” cried he. 

No one replied. 

“ Open, Remy 1” cried he, furious with terror ; “ it is I, 
Henri du Bouchage.” 

“ Oh ! you need not name yourself, M. le Comte,” answered 
Remy from within, “ I recognised you long ago ; but I warn 
you, that if you break in the door you will find me behind it, 
with a pistol in each hand.” 


?oo 


THE FORTY- FIVE GUARDS ME N t \ 


“ But you do not understand,” cried Henri ; “ the water ; it 
is the water !” 

“No fables, no pretexts or dishonourable ruses, M. le Comte: 
I tell you that you will only enter over my body.” 

“ Then I will pass over it, but I will enter. In heaven's name, 
in the name of your own safety and your mistress’s, will you 
open ?” 

“ No.” 

Henri looked round him, and perceived an immense stone. 
He raised it and threw it against the door, which flew open. A 
ball passed over Henri’s head, but without touching him ; he 
jumped towards Remy, and seizing his other arm, cried, “ Do 
you not see that I have no arms ? do not defend yourself against 
a man who does not attack. Look ! only look !” and he drew 
him to the window. 

“ Well,” said he, “ do you see now ?” and he pointed to the 
horizon. 

“ The water !” cried Remy. 

“ Yes, the water ! it invades us ; see, at our feet, the river 
overflows, and in five minutes we shall be surrounded.” 

“ Madame ! madame !” cried Remy. 

“ Do not frighten her, Remy ; get ready the horses at 
once. ” 

Remy ran to the stable, and Henri flew up the staircase. At 
Remy’s cry Diana had opened her door ; Henri seized her in 
his arms and carried her away as he would have done a child. 
But she, believing in treason or violence, struggled, and clung 
to the staircase with all her might. 

“ Tell her that I am saving her, Remy !” cried Henri 

Remy heard the appeal, and cried : 

“ Yes, yes, madame, he is saving you, or rather he will save 
you. Come, for Heaven’s sake !” 


FLIGHT. 


301 


CHAPTER LXIX. 

FLIGHT. 

Henri, without losing time in reasoning with Diana, carried 
her out of the house, and wished to place her before him on 
his horse ; but she, with a movement of invincible repugnance, 
glided from his arms, and was received by Remy, who placed 
her on her own horse. 

“ Ah, madame !” cried Henri, “ how little you understand my 
heart It was not, believe me, for the pleasure of holding you 
in my arms, or pressing you to my heart, although for that 
favour I would sacrifice my life, but that we ought to fly as 
quickly as the birds, and look at them, how they fly !” 

Indeed, in the scarcely dawning light were seen large numbers 
of curlews and pigeons, traversing the air with a quick and 
frightened flight, which, in the night, usually abandoned to the 
silent bat, looked strange to the eye, and sounded sinister to 
the ear. 

Diana did not reply, but rode on without turning her head. 
Her horse, however, as well as that of Remy, was fatigued 
with their long journey, and Henri, as he turned back each 
moment, saw that they could not keep up with him. 

“ See, madame !” said he, “ how my horse outstrips yours, 
and yet I am holding him in with all my strength ; for heaven’s 
sake, madame, while there is yet time, if you will not ride with 
me, take my horse and leave me yours.” 

“ No, thank you, monsieur,” replied she, in her usual calm 
voice. 

“ But, madame,” cried Henri, in despair, “ the water gains 
on us ; do you hear ! do you hear ?” 

Indeed, a horrible crashing was now heard ; it was the dyke 
of a neighbouring village giving way, to swell the inundati» 
Boards and props had given way, a double row of stakes broke 
with a noise like thunder, and the water, rushing over the ruins, 
began to invade an oak wood, of which they saw the tops trem- 
bling, and heard the branches cracking as though a flight of 
demons were passing under the leaves. 

The uprooted trees knocking against the stakes, the wood of 
ruined houses floating on the waters, the distant neighings and 
cries of horses and men carried away by the inundation, formed 


302 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDS MEET. 


a concert of sounds so strange and gloomy, that the terror which 
agitated Henri began to seize also upon Diana. She spurred her 
horse, and he, as if he understood the danger, redoubled his 
efforts. But the water gained on them, and before ten minutes 
it was evident that it- would reach them. Every instant Henri 
turned and cried, “ Quicker, madame ! for pity’s sake ; the 
water comes ; here it is !” 

It came, indeed, foaming and turbulent, carrying away like a 
feather the house in which they had taken shelter ; and majestic, 
immense, rolling like a serpent, it arrived like a wall behind the 
horses of Remy and Diana. Henri uttered a cry of terror, and 
turned on the water, as though he would have fought it. 

“You see you are lost !” screamed he. “Come, madame, 
perhaps there is still time; come with me.” 

“ No, monsieur,” said she. 

“ In a minute it will be too late ; look !” cried he. 

Diana turned ; the water was within fifty feet of her. 

“Let my fate be accomplished,” said she; “you, monsieur, 
fly.” 

Remy’s horse, exhausted, fell, and could not rise again, 
despite the efforts of his rider. 

“ Save her in spite of herself,” cried Remy. 

And at the same moment, as he disengaged himself from the 
stirrups, the water passed over the head of the faithful servant. 
His mistress, at this sight, uttered a terrible cry, and tried to 
jump off her horse to perish with him. But Henri, seeing her 
intention, seized her round the waist, and placing her before 
him, set off like an arrow. 

“ Remy ! Remy !” cried she, extending her arms. A cry 
was the only answer. Remy had come up to the surface, and, 
with the indomitable hope which accompanies the dying man 
to the last, was swimming, sustained by a beam. By his side 
came his horse, beating the water desperately with his feet, 
while the water gained on Diana’s horse, and some twenty feet 
in front Henri and Diana flew on the third horse, which was 
half mad with terror. 

Remy scarcely regretted life, since he hoped that his loved 
mistress would be saved. 

“ Adieu, madame !” cried he. “ I go first to him who waits 
for us, to tell him that you live for ” 

He could not finish ; a n^ountain of water rolled over his 
head. 


FLIGHT. 


303 


“ Remy ! Remy !” cried the lady, “ I wish to die with you. 
I will ! monsieur, I will go to him ; in the name of God, I 
will !” 

She pronounced these words with so much energy and angry 
authority, that the young man unfolded his arms, and let her 
slip to the ground, saying — 

“ Well, madame, we will all three die here together ; it is a 
joy I had not hoped for.” 

As he said these words he stopped his horse, and the water 
reached them almost immediately ; but, by a last effort of love, 
the young man kept hold of Diana’s arm as she stood on the 
ground. The flood rolled over them. It was a sublime spec- 
tacle to see the sangfroid of the joung man, whose entire bust 
was raised above the water, wdiile he sustained Diana with one 
arm, and wdth the other guided the last efforts of his expiring 
horse. 

There was a moment of terrible struggle, during wfliich the 
lady, upheld by Henri, kept her head above w^ater, while with 
his left hand he kept off the floating wood and the corpses 
which would have struck against them. 

One of the bodies floating past sighed out, “Adieu, madame !” 

“Heavens!” cried Henri, “it is Remy!” And without cal- 
culating the danger of the additional w r eight, he seized him by 
his sleeve, drew him up, and enabled him to breathe freely. 
But the exhausted horse now sank in the w^ater to its neck, then 
to its eyes, and finally disappeared altogether. 

“ We must die,” murmured Henri. “ Madame, my life and 
soul belonged to you.” 

As he spoke, he felt Remy slip from him, and he no longer 
tried to retain him — it w r as useless. His only care was to sus- 
tain Diana above the w r ater, that she, at least, might die the last, 
and that he might be able to say to himself, in his last moments, 
that he had done his utmost to save her. All at once, a joyful 
cry sounded at his side ; he turned, and saw r Remy, who had 
found a boat, which had belonged to the little house where they 
had taken shelter, and which the w r ater had carried away. 
Remy, who had regained his strength, thanks to Henri’s assist- 
ance, had seized it as it floated past. The oars were tied to it, 
and an iron hook lay in the bottom. He held out the hook to 
Henri, w r ho seized it, and drawing Diana with him, raised her 
over his shoulders, and passed her to Remy, and then climbed 
in himself. The first rays of the rising sun showed them the 


304 


THE FORTY FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


plains inundated, and the boat swimming like an atom on that 
oce in covered with wrecks. Towards the left rose a little hill, 
completely surrounded by water, looking like an island in the 
midst of the sea. Henri took the oars and rowed towards it, 
while Remy, with the boat-hook, occupied himself in keeping 
off the beams and wrecks which might have struck against them. 
Thanks to Henri’s strength and Remy’s skill, they reached, or, 
rather, were thrown against, the hill. Remy jumped out, and, 
seizing the chain, drew the boat towards him ; Diana, rising 
alone, followed him, and then Henri, who drew up the boat 
and seated himself a little way from them. They were saved 
from the most menacing danger, for the inundation, however 
strong, could never reach to the summit of the hill. Below 
them they could see that great angry waste of waters, which 
seemed inferior in power only to God himself ; and, by the in- 
creasing light, they perceived that it was covered with the corpses 
of French soldiers. 

Remy had a wound in his shoulder, where a floating beam 
had struck against him ; but Diana, thanks to Henri’s protec- 
tion, was free from all injury, although she was cold and wet. 
At last they noticed in the horizon, on the eastern side, some- 
thing like fires burning on a height which the water could not 
reach. As well as they could judge, they were about a league 
off. Remy advanced to the point of the hill, and said that he 
believed he saw a jetty advancing in a direct line towards the 
fires. But they could see nothing clearly, and knew not well 
where they were, for though day was dawning, it came cloudily 
and full of fog ; had it been clear and under a pure sky, they 
might have seen the town of Mechlin, from which they were 
not more than two leagues distant. 

“ Well, M. le Comte,” said Remy, “ what do you think of 
those fires ?” 

“ Those fires, which seem to you to announce a hospitable 
shelter, appear to me to be full of danger.” 

“ And why so ?” 

“Remy,” said Henri, lowering his voice, “look at these 
corpses ; they are all French — there is not one Fleming ; they 
announce to us a great disaster. The dykes have been broken 
to finish the destruction of the French army, if it has been con- 
quered — to nullify the victory, if they have been victors. Those 
fires are as likely to have been lighted by enemies as by friends, 
and may be simply a ruse to draw fugitives to destruction.” 


FLIGHT. 


3°5 

“ Nevertheless, we cannot stay here ; my mistress will die of 
cold and hunger.” 

u You are right, Remy ; remain here with madame, and I 
will go to the jetty, and return to you with news.” 

“No, monsieur,” said Diana, “you shall not expose yourself 
alone ; we have been saved together ; we will live or die to- 
gether. Remy, your arm. I am ready.” 

Each word which she pronounced had so irresistible an accent 
of authority that no one thought of disputing it. Henri bowed, 
and walked first. 

It was more calm ; the jetty formed, with the hill, a kind of 
bay, where the water slept. All three got into the little boat, 
which was once more launched among the wrecks and floating 
bodies. A quarter of an hour after, they touched the jetty. 
They tied the chain of the boat to a tree, landed once more, 
walked along the jetty for nearly an hour, and then arrived at a 
number of Flemish huts, among which, in a place planted with 
lime trees, were two or three hundred soldiers sitting round a 
fire, above whom floated the French flag. Suddenly a sentinel, 
placed about one hundred feet from the bivouac, cried, “Qui 
vive ?” 

“France,” replied Du Bouchage. Then, turning to Diana, 
he said, “ Now, madame, you are saved. I recognise the 
standard of the gendarmes of Aunis, a corps in which I have 
many friends.” 

At the cry of the sentinel and the answer of the comte several 
gendarmes ran to meet the new comers, doubly welcome, in the 
midst of this terrible disaster, as survivors and compatriots. 
Henri was soon recognised ; he was eagerly questioned, and 
recounted the miraculous manner in which he and his com- 
panions had escaped death. Remy and Diana had sat down 
silently in a corner ; but Henri fetched them and made them 
come to the fire, for both were still dripping with water. 

“Madame,” said he, “you will be respected here as in your 
own house. I have taken the liberty of calling you one of my 
relations.” 

And without waiting for the thanks of those whose lives he had 
saved, he went away to rejoin the officers. 

The gendarmes of Aunis, of whom our fugitives were claiming 
hospitality, had retired in good order after the defeat and the 
sauve qui peut of the chiefs. Wherever there is similarity of 
position and sentiment, and the habit of living together, it is 

20 


3oo THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 

common to find unanimity in execution as well as in thought. 
It had been so that night with the gendarmes of Aunis ; for 
seeing their chiefs abandon them, they agreed together to draw 
their ranks closer, instead of breaking them. They therefore 
put their horses to the gallop, and, under the conduct of one of 
the ensigns, whom they loved for his bravery and respected for 
his birth, they took the road to Brussels. 

Like all the actors in this terrible scene, they saw the progress 
of the inundation, and were pursued by the furious waters ; but 
by good luck found in this spot a position strong both against 
men and water. The inhabitants, knowing themselves in safety, 
had not quitted their homes, and had only sent off their women, 
children, and old men to Brussels , therefore the gendarmes 
met with resistance when they arrived ; but death howled behind 
them, and they attacked like desperate men, triumphed over all 
obstacles, lost ten men, but established the others, and turned 
out the Flemings. 

Such was the recital which Henri received from them. 

“ And the rest of the army ?” asked he. 

“ Look,” replied the ensign; “the corpses which pass each 
moment answer your question." 

“ But — my brother," said Henri, in a choking voice. 

“ Alas ! M. le Comte, we do not know. He foughc like a 
lion, but he survived the battle ; as to the inundation I cannot 
say.” 

Henri shook his head sadly ; then, after a minute’s pause, 
said, “ And the duke ?” 

“ Comte, the duke fled one of the first. He was mounted on 
a white horse, with no spot but a black star on the forehead. 
Well, just now we saw the horse pass among a mass of wrecks, 
the foot of a rider was caught in the stirrup and was floating on 
the water." 

“ Great God !” 

“ Good heavens !” echoed Remy, who had drawn near and 
heard the tale. 

“ One of my men ventured down into the water and seized 
the reins of the floating horse, and drew it up sufficiently to 
enable us to see the white boot and gold spur that the duke 
wore. But the waters were rushing past, and the man was 
forced to let go to save himself, and we saw no more. We shall 
not even have the consolation of giving a Christian burial to our 
prince/’ 


FLIGHT. 


307 

“ Dead ! he also ? the heir to the crown ! What a misfor- 
tune !” 

Remy turned to his mistress, and with an expression impos- 
sible to describe, said, 

“ He is dead, madam e, you see.” 

“ I praise the Lord, who has spared us a crime,” said she, 
raising her eyes to heaven. 

“Yes, but it prevents our vengeance.” 

“Vengeance only belongs to a man when God forgets.” 

“ But you, yourself, comte,” said the ensign to Henri, “ what 
are you about to do ?” 

The comte started. “ I ?” said he. 

“ Yes.” 

“ I will v r ait here till my brother’s body passes,” replied he, 
gloomily, ‘‘then I will try to draw him to land. You may be 
sure that if once I hold him, I shall not let go.” 

Remy looked pityingly at the young man ; but Diana heard 
nothing — she w r as praying. 


CHAPTER LXX. 

TRANSFIGURATION. 

After her prayer Diana rose so beautiful and radiant that the 
comte uttered a cry of surprise and admiration. She appeared 
to be waking out of a long sleep, of which the dreams had 
fatigued her and weighed upon her mind ; or rather, she w as 
like the daughter of Jairus, called from death and rising from 
her funeral couch, already purified and ready for heaven. 
Awakening from her lethargy, she cast around her a glance 
so sw r eet and gentle, that Henri began to believe he should 
see her feel for his pain, and yield to a sentiment of grati- 
tude and pity. While the gendarmes, after their frugal repast, 
slept about among the ruins, while Remy himself yielded 
to it, Henri came and sat dowrn close to Diana, and in a voice 
so low and sweet that it seemed r„ murmur of the breeze, 
said : 

“ Madame, you live. Oh ! let me tell you all the joy which 
overflows my heart when I see you here in safety, after having 
seen you on the threshold of the tomb.” 


20 — 2 


30 $ 


THE FOR i Y-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


“It is true, monsieur,” replied she; “I live through you, and 
I wish I could say I was grateful.” 

“ But, madame,” replied Henri, with an immense effort, “ if 
it is only that you are restored to those you love ?” 

“ What do you mean ?” 

“ To those you are going to rejoin through so many perils.” 

“ Monsieur, those I loved are dead ! those I am going to re- 
join are so also.” 

“ Oh, madame !” cried Henri, falling on his knees, “ throw 
your eyes on me — on me, who have suffered so much and loved 
so much. Oh, do not turn away ; you are young, and beautiful 
as the angels in heaven ; read my heart, which I open to you, 
and you will see that it contains not an atom of that love that 
most men feel. You do not believe me? Examine the past 
hours ; which of them has given me joy, or even hope ? yet I 
have persevered. You made me weep ; I devoured my tears. 
You made me suffer; I hid my sufferings. You drove me to 
seek death, and I went to meet it without a complaint. Even 
at this moment, when you turn away your head, when each of 
my words, burning as they are, seems a drop of iced water 
falling on your heart, my soul is full of you, and I live only be- 
cause you live. Just now, was I not ready to die with you ? What 
have I asked for? Nothing. Have I touched you? hand? 
Never, but to draw you from a mortal peril. I held you in my 
arms to draw you from the waves — -nothing more. All in me 
has been purified by the devouring fire of my love.” 

“Oh, monsieur ! for pity’s sake do not speak thus to me.” 

“ Oh, in pity do not condemn me. He told me you loved 
no one ; oh ! repeat to me this assurance ; it is a singular 
favour for a man in love to ask to be told that he is not loved, 
but I prefer to know that you are insensible to all. Oh, 
madame, you who are the only adoration of my life, reply to 
me.” 

In spite of Henri’s prayers, a sigh was the only answer. 

“You say nothing,” continued the comte; “Remy at least 
had more pity for me, for he tried to console me. Oh ! I see 
you will not reply, because you do not wish to tell me that you 
came to Flanders to rejoin some one happier than I, and yet I 
am young, and am ready to die at your feet.” 

“ M. le Comte,” replied Diana, with majestic solemnity, “ do 
not say to me things fit only to be said to a woman ; I belong 
to another world, and do not live for this. Had I seen you 


TRANSFIGURA T10N. 


309 


less noble — less good — less generous, had I not for you in the 
bottom of my heart the tender feeling of a sister for a brother, 

I should say, ‘ Rise, comte, and do not importune with love 
my ears, which hold it in horror.’ But I do not say so, ccmte, 
because I suffer in seeing you suffer. I say more ; now that I 
know you, I will take your hand and place it on my heart, and 
I will say to you willingly, ‘ See, my heart beats no more ; live 
near me, if you like, and assist day by day, if such be your 
pleasure, at this painful execution of a body which is being 
killed by the tortures of the soul ;’ but this sacrifice, which you 
may accept as happiness ” 

“ Oh, yes !” cried Henri, eagerly. 

“Well, this sacrifice I ought to forbid. This very day a 
change has taken place in my life ; I have no longer the right 
to lean on any human arm, — not even on the arm of that 
generous friend, that noble creature, who lies there, and for a 
time finds the happiness of forgetfulness. Alas ! poor Remy,” 
continued she, with the first change of tone that Henri re- 
marked in her voice, “ your waking will also be sad ; you do 
not know the progress of my thought ; you cannot read in my 
eyes that you will soon be alone, and that alone I must go to 
God.” 

“ What do you mean, madame ? do you also wish to die ?” 

Remy, awakened by the cry of the young count, began to 
listen. 

“You saw me pray, did you not ?” said Diana. 

“ Yes,” answered Henri. 

“ This prayer was my adieu to earth ; the joy that you re- 
marked on my face — the joy that fills me even now, is the same 
^ou would see in me if the angel of death were to come and 
say to me, * Rise, Diana, and follow me.’ ” 

“ Diana ! Diana ! now I know your name ; Diana, cherished 
name !” murmured the young man. 

“ O, silence !” cried she, “ forget this name which escaped 
me ; no living person has the right to pierce my heart by pro- 
nouncing it.” 

“ Oh ! madame, do not tell me you are going to die.” 

“ I do not say that,” replied she, in her grave voice ; “I say 
that I am about to quit this world of tears, — of hatreds, — of 
bad passions, — of vile interests and desires. I say that I have 
nothing left to do among the creatures whom God created my 
fellow mortals ; I have no more tears, no more blood in my 


3io 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDS ME IV 


heart; no more thoughts— they are dead. I am a worthless 
offering, for in renouncing the world I sacrifice nothing, neither 
desires nor hopes; but such as I am I offer myself to my God, 
and he will accept me — he who has made me suffer so much, 
and yet kept me from sinking under it.” 

Remy, who had heard this, rose slowly, and said, “You 
abandon me ?” 

“ For God,” said Diana, raising her thin white hand to 
heaven. 

“ It is true,” said Remy, sadly ; and seizing her hand he 
pressed it to his breast. 

“ Oh ! what am I by these two hearts ?” said Henri. 

“You are,” replied Diana, “the only human creature, except 
Remy, on whom I have looked twice for years.” 

Henri knelt. “ Thanks, madame,” said he, “ I bow to my 
destiny. You belong to God ; I cannot be jealous.” 

As he rose, they heard the sound of trumpets on the plain, 
from which the water was rapidly disappearing. The gendarmes 
seized their arms and were on horseback at once. 

Henri listened. “ Gentlemen,” cried he, “ those are the ad- 
miral’s trumpets ; I know them. Oh, God ! may they announce 
my brother !” 

“You see that you still wish something, and still love some- 
thing ; why, then, should you choose despair, like those who 
desire nothing — like those who love no one ?” 

“ A horse !” cried Henri ; “ who will lend me a horse ?” 

“ But the water is still all around us,” said the ensign. 

“But you see that the plain is practicable ; they must be ad- 
vancing, since we hear their trumpets.” 

“ Mount to the top of the bank, M. le Comte, the sky is 
clear, perhaps you will see.” 

Henri climbed up ; the trumpets continued to sound at in- 
tervals, but were seemingly stationary. 


THE TWO BROTHERS. 


3 « 


CHAPTER LXXI. 

THE TWO BROTHERS. 

A quarter of an hour after, Henri returned ; he had seeh a 
considerable detachment of French troops entrenched on a hill 
at some distance. Excepting a large ditch, which surrounded 
the place occupied by the gendarmes of Aunis, the water had 
begun to disappear from the plain, the natural slope of the 
ground in the immediate neighbourhood making the waters run 
towards the sea, and several points of earth, higher than the 
rest, began to reappear. The slimy mud brought by the rolling 
waters had covered the whole country, and it was a sad spec- 
tacle to see, as the wind cleared the mist, a number of cavaliers 
stuck in the mud, and trying vainly to reach either of the hills. 
From the other hill, on which the flag of France waved, their 
cries of distress had been heard, and that w T as why the trum- 
pets had sounded. The gendarmes now sounded their cornets, 
and were answered by guns in joyful recognition. About 
eleven o’clock the sun appeared over this scene of desolation, 
drying some parts of the plain, and rendering practicable a 
kind of road Henri, who tried it first, found that it led by a 
detour from where they were to the opposite hill, and he be- 
lieved that though his horse might sink to a certain extent, he 
would not sink altogether. He therefore determined to try it, 
and recommending Diana and Remy to the care of the ensign, 
set off on his perilous way. At the same time as he started, 
they could see a cavalier leave the opposite hill, and, like Henri, 
try the road. All the soldiers seemed trying to stop him by 
their supplications. The two men pursued their w r ay courage- 
ously, and soon perceived that their task was less difficult than 
had been feared. A small stream of water, escaped from a 
broken aqueduct, washed over the path, and little by little was 
clearing away the mud. The cavaliers were within two hun- 
dred feet of each other. 

“ France !” cried the one who came from the opposite hill, at 
the same time raising his hat, which had a white plume in it. 

“ Oh ! it is you !” cried Henri, with a burst of joy 

“You, Henri ! you, my brother !” cried the other. 

And they set off as quickly as their horses could manage to 
go ; and soon, among the frantic acclamations of the spectators. 


312 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


on each side, embraced long and tenderly. Soon, all — gen- 
darmes and light horse — Huguenots and Catholics — rushed 
along the road, pioneered by the two brothers. Soon the two 
camps were joined, and there, where they had thought to find 
death, nearly 3,000 Frenchmen cried, “ Thank God !” and 
“ Vive la France !” 

“ Gentlemen,” said a Huguenot officer, “ it is ‘ Long live the 
admiral,’ you should cry, for it is to M. de Joyeuse alone that 
we now owe the happiness of embracing our countrymen.” 

Immense acclamations followed this speech. The two bro- 
thers talked for some time, and then Joyeuse asked Henri if he 
had heard news of the duke. 

“ It appears he is dead,” replied Henri. 

“ Is that certain ?” 

“ The gendarmes saw his horse drowned, and a rider, whose 
head was under water, dragged by the stirrup.” 

“ It has been a sad day for France,” said Joyeuse. Then 
turning to his men he said, “ Come, gentlemen, let us not lose 
time. Once the waters have retired we shall probably be 
attacked. Let us intrench ourselves until the arrival of news 
and food.” 

“ But, monseigneur,” said a voice, “ the horses have eaten 
nothing since four o’clock yesterday, and are dying with hunger.” 

“ We have corn in our encampment,” said the ensign, “ but 
what shall we do for the men ?” 

“ Oh !” said Joyeuse, “if there be corn, that is all I ask; the 
men must live like the horses.” 

“ Brother,” said Henri, “ I want a little conversation with 
you.” 

“ Go back to your place ; choose a lodging for me, and wait 
for me there.” 

Henri went back. 

“We are now in the midst of an army,” said he to Remy; 
“ hide yourselves in the lodging I will show you, and do not 
let madame be seen by any one.” 

Remy installed himself with Diana in the lodging pointed 
out. About two o’clock the Due de Joyeuse entered, with his 
trumpets blowing, lodged his troops, and gave strict injunctions 
to prevent disorder. He distributed barley to the men, and hay 
to the horses, and to the wounded some wine and beer, which 
had been found in the cellars, and himself, in sight of all, dined 
on a piece of black bread and a glass of water. Everywhere he 
was received as a deliverer with cries of gratitude. 


THE TWO BROTHERS . 313 

“Now,” said he to his brother, when they were alone, “let 
the Flemings come, and I will beat them, and even, if this goes 
on, eat them, for in truth I am very hungry, and this is miser- 
able stuff,” added he, throwing into a corner the piece of bread, 
which in public he had eaten so enthusiastically. 

“ But now, Henri, tell me how it happens that I find you in 
Flanders when I thought you in Paris.” 

“ My brother,” said Henri, “life became insupportable to me 
at Paris, and I set out to join you in Flanders.” 

“All from love?” asked Joyfuse. 

“ No, from despair. Now, Anne, I am no longer in love ; 
my passion is sadness.” 

“ My brother, permit me to tell you that you have chosen a 
miserable woman. Virtue that cares not for the sufferings of 
others is barbarous — is an absence of Christian charity.” 

“ Oh ! my brother, do not calumniate virtue.” 

“ I do not calumniate virtue, Henri ; I accuse vice, that is 
all. I repeat that this is a miserable w'oman, and not worth all 
the torments she makes you suffer. Oh ! mon Dieu ! in such 
a case you should use all your strength and all your power, 
Henri. In your place, I should have taken her house by 
assault, and then herself ; and when she was conquered, and 
came to throw' her arms round your neck and say, ‘ Henri, I 
adore you,’ I should have repulsed her, and said, ‘You do well, 
madame ; it is your turn — I have suffered enough for you- — to 
suffer also.’” 

Henri seized his brother’s hand. “ You do not mean a word 
of what you say,” said he. 

“ Yes, on my honour.” 

“You, so good — so generous !” 

“ Generosity with heartless people is folly.” 

“ Oh ! Joyeuse, Joyeuse, you do not know this woman.” 

“No, I do not wish to know' her.” 

“Why not?” 

“ Because she w'ould make me commit what others would 
call a crime, but which I should call an act of justice.” 

“ Oh ! my good brother, how lucky you are not to be in love. 
But, if you please, let us leave my foolish love, and talk of other 
things.” 

“ So be it.; I do not like to talk of your folly.” 

“ You see we w T ant provisions.” 

“ Yes, and I have thought of a method of getting them.” 


'314 THE forty- five guards me at. 

“What is it?” 

“ I cannot leave here until I have certain news of the army* 
— for the position is good, and I could defend myself against 
five times our number ; but I may send out a body of scouts, 
and they will bring news and provisions also, for Flanders is a 
fine country.” 

“ Not very, brother.” 

“ I speak of it as God made it, and not men, who eternally 
spoil the works of God. Do you know, Henri, what folly this 
prince committed — what this unlucky Francois has lost through 
pride and precipitation ? His soul is gone to God, so let us be 
silent ; but in truth he might have acquired immortal glory and 
one of the most beautiful kingdoms in Europe, while he has, 
on the contrary, aided no one but William of Orange. But do 
you know, Henri, that the Antwerpians fought well ?” 

“ And you also ; so they say, brother.” 

“Yes, it was one of my good days ; and besides there was 
something that excited me.” 

“ What was it ?” 

“ I met on the field of battle a sword that I knew.” 

“ French ?” 

“Yes, French.” 

“ In the ranks of the Flemings ?” 

“ At their head, Henri ; this is a secret which forms a sequel 
to Salcede’s business.” 

“ However, dear brother, here you are, safe and sound, to 
my great joy; I, who have done nothing yet, must do some- 
thing, also.” 

“ And what will you do 

“ Give me the command of your scouts, I beg.” 

“ No, it is too dangerous, Henri ; I would not say so before 
strangers, but I do not wish you to die an obscure death. The 
scouts may meet with some of those horrid Flemings who fight 
with flails and scythes ; you kill one thousand of them, and the 
last cuts you in two or disfigures you. No, Henri ; if you will 
die, let it be a more glorious death than that.” 

“ My brother, grant me what I ask, I beg ; I promise you to 
be prudent, and to return here.” 

“ Well, I understand.” 

“ What ?” 

“ You wish to try if the fame of a brave action will not soften 
the heart of this ferocious tigress. Confess that that is what 
makes you insist on it.” 


THE TWO BROTHERS . 


315 


Ci I will confess it if you wish, brother.” 

“ Well, you are right. Women who resist a great love some- 
times yield to fame.” 

“ I do not hope that.” 

“If you do it without this hope you are mad. Henri, seek 
no more reasons for this woman’s refusal than that she has 
neither eyes nor heart.” 

“You give me the command, brother ?” 

“ I must, if you will have it so.” 

“ Can I go to-night ?” 

“ You must, Henri ; you understand we cannot wait long.” 

“ How many men do you give me ?” 

“ A hundred ; not more. I cannot weaken my force here, 
you know, Henri.” 

“ Less, if you like, brother.” 

“No, I would wish to give you double. Only promise me, 
on your honour, that if you meet with more than three hundred 
men, you will retreat and not get killed.” 

“ My brother,” said Henri, smiling, “ you sell your glory very 
dear.” 

“ Then I will neither sell nor give it to you ; and another 
officer shall command.” 

“ My brother, give your orders and I will execute them.” 

“ You will only engage with equal, double, or triple forces, 
but not with more ?” 

“ I swear it” 

“Very well ; now, what men would you like to take?” 

“ Let me take one hundred of the gendarmes of Aunis ; I have 
plenty of friends there, and can choose whom I like.” 

“ That will do.” 

“ When shall I set out.” 

“ At once. Take one day’s rations for the men and two for 
the horses. Remember, I want speedy and certain news.” 

“ I go, brother; are there any other orders ?” 

“ Do not spread the news of the duke’s death ; let it be 
believed he is here. Exaggerate my strength, and if you find 
the duke’s body, although he was a bad man and a poor general, 
yet, as he belonged to the royal house of France, have it put in 
an oak coffin and brought back by your men, that he may be 
buried at St. Denis.” 

“ Good, brother ; now, is this all ?” 

“ All ! but promise me once more, Henri, you are not de^ 
reiving me — you will not seek death ?” 


3 16 THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN, \ 

“ No, brother ; I had that thought when I came to join you, 
but I have it no longer.” 

“ And when did it leave vou ?” 

“ Three hours ago.” 

“ On what occasion ?” 

“ Excuse me, brother.” 

“ Of course, Henri, your secrets are your own.” 

“ Oh ! how good you are, brother !” 

An i the young men, once more embracing each other, sepa- 
rated with smiles. 


CHAPTER LXXII. 

THE EXPEDITION. 

Henri, full of joy, hastened to Diana and P.emy. 

“ Get ready ; in a quarter of an hour we set out,” said he. 
“ You will find two horses saddled at the door of the little 
wooden staircase leading to this corridor ; join my suite .and say 
nothing.” * 

Then, going out on the balcony, he cried : 

“Trumpet of the gendarmes, sound the call.” 

The call was quickly heard, and all the gendarmes ranged 
themselves round the house. 

“ Gendarmes,” said Henri, “ my brother has given me, for the 
time, the command of your company, and has ordered me to 
set out to-night to obtain provisions and information as to the 
movements of the enemy, and one hundred of you are to 
accompany me ; the mission is dangerous, but necessary for the 
safety of all. Who are willing to go ?” 

The whole three hundred offered themselves. 

“ Gentlemen,” said Henri, “ I thank you all ; you have 
rightly been called the example to the army, but I can but 
take one hundred ; and as I do not wish to choose, let chance 
decide. Monsieur,” continued he, to the ensign, “draw lots, if 
you please.” 

While this was being done, Joyeuse gave his last instructions 
to his brother. “ Listen, Henri,” said he ; “ the country is 
drying, and there is a communication between Courteig and 
Rupelmonde ; you wi 1 march between a river and a stream — 


THE EXPEDITION, 


317 


the Scheldt and the Rupel. I trust that there will be no neces- 
sity for you to go as far as Rupelmonde to find provisions. My 
men took three peasants prisoners ; I give one of them to you 
for a guide — but no false pity ! at the least appearance of treason 
shoot him without mercy.” 

He then tenderly embraced his brother, and gave the order 
for departure. The one hundred men drawn by lots were ready, 
and the guide was placed between two, with pistols in their 
hands, while Remy and his companion mixed with the rest. 
Henri gave no directions about them, thinking that curiosity 
was already quite sufficiently aroused about them, without aug- 
menting it by precautions more dangerous than salutary. He 
himself did not stay by them, but rode at the head of his com- 
pany. Their march was slow, for often the ground nearly gave 
way under them, and they sank in the mud. Sometimes figures 
were seen flying over the plain ; they were peasants who had 
been rather tbo quick in returning to their homes, and who fled 
at the sight of the enemy. Sometimes, however, they were 
unlucky Frenchmen, half dead with cold and hunger, and who, 
in their uncertainty of meeting with friends or enemies, preferred 
waiting for daylight to continue their painful journey. 

They traversed two leagues in three hours, which brought the 
adventurous band to the banks of the Rupel, along which a 
stony road ran ; but here danger succeeded to difficulty, and 
two or three horses lost their footing on the slimy stones, and 
rolled with their riders into the still rapid waters of the river. 
More than once also, from some boat on the opposite bank, 
shots were fired, and one man was killed at Diana’s side. She 
manifested regret for the man, but no fear for herself. Henri, 
in these different circumstances, showed himself to be a worthy 
captain and true friend ; he rode first, telling all the men to 
follow in his steps, trusting less to his own sagacity than to that 
of the horse his brother had given him. Three leagues from 
Rupelmonde the gendarmes came upon six French soldiers 
sitting by a turf fire ; the unfortunates were cooking some horse- 
flesh, the only food they had had for two days. The approach of 
the gendarmes caused great trouble among the guests at this sad 
feast ; two or three rose to fly, but the others stopped them, say- 
ing, “If they are enemies they can but kill us, and all witt be 
over.” 

“ France ! France !” cried Henri. 

On recognising their countrymen they ran to them, and were 


3i» 


ThE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


given cloaks to wrap round them and something to drink, and 
were allowed to mount en croup behind the valets, and in this 
manner they accompanied the detachment. Half a league 
further on they met four men of the 4th Light Horse, with, how- 
ever, only one horse between them ; they were also welcomed. 
At last they arrived on the banks of the Scheldt ; the night was 
dark, and the gendarmes found two men who were trying, in 
bad Flemish, to obtain from a boatman a passage to the other 
side, which he refused. The ensign, who understood Dutch, 
advanced softly, and heard the boatman say, “ You are French, 
and shall die here; you shall not cross.” 

“ It is you who shall die, if you do not take us over at once,” 
replied one of the men, drawing his dagger. 

“ Keep firm, monsieur,” cried the ensign, “ we will come to 
your aid.” 

But as the two men turned at these words, the boatman 
loosened the rope, and pushed rapidly from the shore. One 
of the gendarmes, however, knowing how useful this boat 
would be, went into the stream on his horse and fired at the 
boatman; who fell. The boat was left without a guide, but the 
current brought it back again towards the bank. The two 
strangers seized it at once and got in. This astonished the 
ensign. 

- “ Gentlemen,” said he, “ who are you, if you please ?” 

“ Gentlemen, we are marine officers, and you are gendarmes 
of Aunis, apparently.” 

“ Yes, gentlemen, and very happy to have served you ; will 
you not accompany us ?” 

“ Willingly.” 

“ Get into the wagons, then, if you are too tired to ride.” 

“ May we ask where are you going ?” said one. 

“ Monsieur, our orders are to push on to Rupelmonde.” 

“ Take care,” answered he. “We did not pass the stream 
sooner, because this morning a detachment of Spaniards passed, 
coming from Antwerp. At sunset we thought we might ven- 
ture, for two men inspire no disquietude; but you, a whole 
troop ” 

“ It is true ; I will call our chief.” 

Henri approached, and asked what was the matter. 

“These gentlemen met this morning a detachment of 
Spaniards following the same road as ourselves.” 

“ How many were they ?” 


THE EXPEDITION 


319 


“About fifty.” 

“ And does that stop you ?” 

“ No, but I think it would be well to secure the boat, in 
case we should wish to pass the stream ; it will hold twenty 
men.” 

“ Good ! let us keep the boat. There should be some houses 
at the junction of the Scheldt and Rupel ?” 

“ There is a village,” said a voice. 

“ Then let two men descend the stream with the boat, while 
we go along the bank.” 

“We will bring the boat if you will let us,” said one of the 
officers. 

“ If you wish it, gentlemen ; but do not lose sight of us, and 
come to us in the village.” 

“ But if we abandon the boat some one will take it ?” 

“You will find ten men waiting, to whom you can deliver 
it” 

“ It is well,” said one, and they pushed off from the shore. 

“It is singular,” said Henri, “but I fancy I know that 
voice.” 

An hour after they arrived at the village, which was occu- 
pied by the fifty Spaniards, but they, taken by surprise when 
they least expected it, made little resistance. Henri had them 
disarmed and shut up in the strongest house in the village, and 
left ten men to guard them. Ten more were sent to guard the 
boat, and ten others placed as sentinels, with the promise of 
being relieved in an hour. Twenty of the others then sat down 
in the house opposite to that in which the prisoners were, to the 
supper which had been prepared for them. Henri chose a 
separate room for Remy and Diana ; he then placed .the ensign 
at table with the others, telling him to invite the two naval 
officers when they arrived. He next went out to look for ac- 
commodation for the rest of the men, and when he returned in 
half-an-hour he found them waiting supper for him. Some had 
fallen asleep on their chairs, but his entrance roused them. The 
table, covered with cheese, pork, and bread, with a pot of beer 
by each man, looked almost tempting. Henri sat down and told 
them to begin. 

“ Apropos !” said he, “ have the strangers arrived ?’ 

“ Yes, there they are at the end of the table.” 

Henri looked and saw them in the darkest corner of the 
room. 


320 


THE FORTY- FIVE GUARDSMEN, 


“ Gentlemen,” said he, “ you are badly placed, and I think 
you are not eating.” 

“Thanks, M. le Comte,” said one, “we are very tired, and 
more in need of rest than food ; we told your officers so, but 
they insisted, saying that it was your orders that we should sup 
with you. We feel the honour, but if, nevertheless, instead of 
keeping us longer you would give us a room ” 

“Is that also the wish of your companion ?” said Henri, and 
he looked at this companion, whose hat was pushed down over 
his eyes, and who had not yet spoken. 

“ Yes, comte,” replied he, in a scarcely audible voice. 

Henri rose, walked straight to the end of the table, while every 
one watched his movements and astonished look. 

“ Monsieur,” said he, to the one who had spoken first, “ do 
me a favour?” 

“ What is it, M. le Comte ?” 

“ Tell me if you are not Aurilly’s brother, or Aurillv him- 
self?” 

“ Aurilly !” cried all. 

“ And let your companion,” continued Henri, “ raise his hat 
a little and let me see his face, or else I shall call him mon- 
seigneur, and bow before him.” And as he spoke he bowed 
respectfully, hat in hand. The officer took off his hat. 

“ Monseigneur le Due d’ Anjou 1” cried all. “ The duke, 
living !” 

“ Ma foi, gentlemen,” replied he, “ since you will recognise 
your conquered and fugitive prince, I shall not deny myself to 
you any longer. I am the Due d’ Anjou.” 

“ Vive monseigneur !” cried all. 


CHAPTER LXXIII. 

PAUL-EMILE. 

“ Oil ! silence, gentlemen,” said the prince, “ do not be more 
content than I am at my good fortune. I am enchanted not 
to be dead, you may well believe ; and yet, if you had not 
recognised me, I should not have been the first to boast of being 
alive.” 

“ What ! monseigneur,” cried Henri, “ you recognised me— 


PAUL-EM1LE. 


321 


you found you-rself among a troop of Frenchmen, and would 
have left us to mourn your loss, without undeceiving us ?” 

“ Gentlemen, besides a number of reasons which made me 
wish to preserve my incognito, I confess that I should not have 
been sorry, since I was believed to be dead, to hear what funeral 
oration would have been pronounced over me.” 

“ Monseigneur !” 

“ Yes ; I am like Alexander of Macedon ; I make war like 
an artist, and have as much self-love ; and I believe I have com- 
mitted a fault ” 

“ Monseigneur,” said Henri, lowering his eyes, “do not say 
such things.” 

“Why not? The pope only is infallible, and ever since 
Boniface VIII. that has been disputed.” 

“See to what you exposed us, monseigneur, if any of us 
had given his opinion on this expedition, and it had been 
blamed.” 

“ Well, why not ? do you think I have not blamed myself, 
not for having given battle, but for having lost it.” 

“ Monseigneur, this goodness frightens me ; and will your 
highness permit me to say that this gaiety is not natural. I 
trust your highness is not suffering.” 

A terrible cloud passed over the prince’s face, making it as 
black as night. 

“ No,” said he, “ I was never better, thank God, than now, 
and I am glad to be among you all.” 

The officers bowed. 

“ How many men have you, Du Bouchage ?” asked he. 

“ One hundred, monseigneur.” 

“ Ah ! a hundred out of ten thousand ; that is like the 
defeat at Cannes. Gentlemen, they will send a bushel of your 
rings to Antwerp, but I doubt if the Flemish beauties could 
wear them, unless they had their fingers pared by their hus- 
band’s knives, which, I must say, cut well.” 

“ Monseigneur,” replied Henri, “ if our battle was like the 
baftle of Cannes, at least we are more lucky than the Romans, 
for we have preserved our Paulus-Emilius !” 

“ On my life, gentlemen, the Paulus-Emilius of Antwerp 
was Joyeuse; and doubtless, to preserve the resemblance with 
his heroic model to the end, your brother is dead, is he not, 
Du Bouchage ?” 

Henri felt wounded at this cold question. 


21 


322 


THE FORTY- FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


“No, monseigneur, he lives,” replied he. 

“ Ah ! so much the better,” said the duke, with his icy smile. 
“What! our brave Joyeuse lives! Where is he, that I may 
embrace him ?” 

“ He is not here, monseigneur.” 

“ Ah ! wounded ?” 

“ No, monseigneur, he is safe and sound ” 

“ But a fugitive like me, wandering, famished, and ashamed. 
Alas ! the proverb is right — ‘ For glory, the sword ; after the 
sword, blood ; after blood, tears.” 

“ Monseigneur, I am happy to tell your highness that my 
brother has been happy enough to save three thousand men, 
with whom he occupies a large village about seven leagues 
from here, and I am acting as scout for him.” 

The duke grew pale. 

“ Three thousand men ! he has saved three thousand men ! 
he is a perfect Xenophon, and it is very lucky for me that my 
brother sent him to me. It is not the Valois who can take 
for their motto ‘ Hilariter.’ ” 

“Oh ! monseigneur,” said Henri, sadly, seeing that this gaiety 
hid a sombre jealousy. 

“ It is true, is it not, Aurilly?” continued the duke ; “I re- 
turn to France like Francois after the battle of Pavia ; all is lost 
but honour. Ah ! ah !” 

A sad silence received these laughs, more terrible than sobs. 

“Monseigneur,” said Henri, “tell me how the tutelary genius 
of France saved your highness.” 

“Oh ! dear comte, the tutelary genius of France was occu- 
pied with something else, and I had to save myself.” 

“ And how, monseigneur ?” 

“ By my legs.” 

No smile welcomed this joke, which the duke would cer- 
tainly have punished with death if made by another. 

“ Yes, yes,” he continued ; “ how we ran ! did we not, my 
brave Aurilly ?” 

“ Every one,” said Henri, “ knows the calm bravery and nyli- 
tary genius of your highness, and we beg you not to distress us 
by attributing to yourself faults which you have not. The best 
general is not invincible, and Hannibal himself was conquered 
at Zama.” 

“ Yes, but Hannibal had won the battles of Trebia, Thrasy- 
mene, and Cannes, while I have only won that of Cateau- 
Cambresis ; it is not enough to sustain the comparison.” 


PA UL-EM1LR. 


323 


“ But monseigneur jests when he says he ran away.” 

“ No, I do not. Pardieu ! do you see anything to jest about, 
Du Bouchage ?” 

“ Could any one have done otherwise?” said Aurilly. 

“ Hold your tongue, Aurilly, or ask the shade of St. Aignan 
what could have been done.” 

Aurilly hung his head. 

“ Ah ! you do not know the history of St. Aignan. I will 
tell it to you. Imagine, then, that when the battle was de- 
clared to be lost, he assembled 500 horse, and, instead of flying 
like the rest, came to me and said, ‘ We must attack them, mon- 
seigneur/ ‘What! attack?’ said I; ‘they are 100 to one.’ 
‘ Were they 1000 to one, I would attack them,’ replied he, with 
a hideous grimace. ‘ Attack if you please,’ said I ; ‘ I do not. ’ 
‘ Give me your horse, and take mine,’ said he ; ‘ mine is fresh — 
yours is not ; and as I do not mean to fly, any horse is good 
for me.’ And then he took my white horse and gave me his 
black one, saying, ‘ Prince, that horse will go twenty leagues in 
four hours if you like.’ Then, turning to his men, he cried, 
‘ Come, gentlemen, follow me — all those who will not turn 
their backs and he rode towards the enemy with a second 
grimace, more frightful than the first. He thought he should 
have met men, but he met water instead, and St. Aignan and his 
paladins were lost. Had he listened to me, instead of perform- 
ing that act of useless foolhardiness, we should have had him 
at this table, and he would not have been making, as he pro- 
bably now is, a grimace still uglier than the first.” 

A thrill of horror ran through the assembly. 

“ This wretch has no heart,” thought Henri. “ Oh ! why 
does his misfortune and his birth protect him from the words I 
long to say to him ?” 

“ Gentlemen,” said Aurilly, in a low voice — for he fe’t the 
effect these words had produced — “ you see how monseigneur 
is affected ; do not heed what he says, for since his misfortune 
I think he has really moments of delirium.” 

“ And so,” continued the duke, emptying his glass, “ that is 
how St Aignan is dead and I alive. However, in dying he did 
me a last service, for it was believed, as he rode my horse, that 
it was me, and this belief spread not only among the French, 
but among the Flemings, who consequently ceased their pur- 
suit ; but reassure yourselves, gentlemen, we shall have oul 

21 — 2 


3^4 


THE FORTY- FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


revenge, and I am mentally organising the most formidable 
army that ever existed.” 

“ Meanwhile, monseigneur,” said Henri, w will your highness 
take the command of my men ? It is not fit that I should 
continue to do so when you are here.” 

“ So be it ; and, first, I order every one to sup, particularly 
you, Du Bouchage — you have eaten nothing” 

“ Monseigneur, I am not hungry.” 

“ In that case, return to visit the posts. Tell the chiefs that 
I live, but beg them not to rejoice too openly until we gain a 
feetter*chadel, or rejoin the army of our invincible Joyeuse, for 
I confess I do not wish to be taken now, after having escaped 
from fire and water.” 

“ Monseigneur, you shall be strictly obeyed, and no one 
shall know excepting ourselves that we have the honour of your 
company among us.” 

“ And these gentlemen will keep the secret ?” said the duke, 
looking round. 

All bowed, and Du Bouchage went out. 

It only required an hour for this fugitive, this conquered run- 
away, to become again proud, careless, and imperious. To 
command ioo men or 100,000 men, was still to command. 

While Du Bouchage executed his orders with the best grace 
he could, Francis asked questions. He was astonished that 
a man of the rank of Du Bouchage had consented to take the 
command of this handful of men, and of such a perilous expe- 
dition. The duke was always suspicious, and asked, therefore, 
and learned that the admiral had only yielded to his brother’s 
earnest request. It was the ensign who gave this information 
— he who had been superseded in his command by Henri him- 
self, as Henri had been by the duke. 

The prince fancied he detected a slight irritation in this man’s 
mind against Du Bouchage ; therefore he continued to interro- 
gate him. 

“ But,” said he, “what was the comte’s reason for soliciting so 
earnestly such a poor command ?” 

“ First, zeal for the service, no doubt.” 

“ First ! — what else ?” 

“ Ah ! monseigneur, I do not know.” 

“ You deceive me — you do know.” 

“ Monseigneur, I can give only, even to your highness, public 
reasons.” 


PA UL-EMlLh. 


325 


“ You see,” said the duke, turning to the others, “ I was quite 
right to hide myself, gentlemen, since there are in my army 
secrets from which I am excluded.” 

“ Ah ! monseigneur,” said the ensign, “ you misunderstand 
me ; there are no secrets but those which concern M. du Bou- 
chage. Might it not be, for example, that, while serving the 
general interests, he might have wished to render a service to 
some friend or relation by escorting him ?” 

“ Who here is a friend or relation of the comte ? Tell me, 
that I may embrace him.” 

“ Monseigneur,” said Aurilly, mixing in the conversation, “ I 
have discovered a part of the secret. This relation whom M. 
Du Bouchage wished to escort is — a lady.” 

“ Ah ! ah ! why did they not tell me so frankly. That dear 
Henri — it is quite natural. Let us shut our eyes to the rela- 
tion, and speak of her no more.” 

“ You had better not, monseigneur, for there seems a great 
mystery.” 

“ How so?” 

‘‘Yes, the lady, like the celebrated Bradamante, about whom 
I have so often sung to your highness, disguises herself in the 
dress of a man.” 

“ Oh ! monseigneur,” cried the ensign, “ M. du Bouchage 
seems to me to have a great respect for this lady, and probably 
would be very angry at any indiscretion.” 

“ Doubtless, monsieur ; we will be mute as sepulchres — as 
mute as poor St. Aignan ; only, if we see the lady, we will try 
not to make grimaces at her. Where is this lady, Aurilly?” 

“ Upstairs.” 

“ Upstairs ! what, in this house ?” 

“ Yes, monseigneur ; but hush ! here is M. du Bouchage.” 

" Hush !” said the prince, laughing. 


CHAPTER LXXIV. 

ONE OF THE SOUVENIRS OF THE DUC D’ANJOU. 

Henri, as he entered, could hear the hateful laugh of the 
prince, but he had not lived enough with him to know the 
danger that always lurked in his laugh. Besides, he could not 
suspect the subject of conversation, and no one dared to tell 


326 


TIIE FORTY- FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


him in the duke’s presence. Besides, the duke, who had already 
settled his plan, kept Henri near him until all the other officers 
were gone. He then changed the distribution of the posts 
Henri had established his quarters in that house, and had 
intended to send the ensign to a post near the river, but the 
duke now took Henri’s place, and sent him where the ensign 
was to have been. Henri was not astonished, for the river 
was an important point. Before going, however, he wished to 
speak to the ensign, and recommend to his care the two people 
under his protection, and whom he was forced for the time to 
abandon. But at the first word that Henri began to speak to 
him the duke interposed. “ Secrets?” said he, with his peculiar 
smile. 

The ensign had understood, when too late, the fault he had 
been guilty of. 

“No, monseigneur,” replied he, “ M. le Comte was only ask- 
ing me how much powder we had left fit to use.” 

The answer had two aims ; the first to turn away the duke’s 
suspicions, if he had any ; and the second to let Du Bouchage 
know that he could count on a friend in him. 

“ Ah !” said the duke, forced to seem to believe what he was 
told. And as he turned to the door the ensign whispered to 
Henri, “ The prince knows you are escorting some one.” 

Henri started, but it was too late. The duke remarked the 
start, and, as if to assure himself that his orders were executed, 
proposed to Henri to accompany him to his post, which he was 
forced to accede to. 

Henri wished to warn Remy to be on his guard, but it was 
impossible ; all he could do was to say to the ensign : 

“ Watch well over the powder ; watch it as I would myself, 
will you not ?” 

“ Yes, M. le Comte,” replied the young man. 

On the way the duke said to Du Bouchage, “ where is this 
powder that you speak of?” 

“ In the house we have just left, your highness.” 

“ Oh ! be easy, then, Du Bouchage ; I know too well the 
importance of such an article, in our situation, to neglect it. I 
will watch over it myself.” 

They said no more until they arrived, when the duke, after 
giving Henri many charges not to quit his post, returned. He 
found Aurilly wrapped in an officer’s cloak, sleeping on one of 
the seats in the dining-room. The duke woke him. “ Come,” 
eaid he. 


ONE OF THE DUC D' ANJOU'S SOUVENIRS. 327 

“Yes, monseigneur.” 

“ Do you know what I mean ?” 

“Yes ! the unknown lady — the relation of M. du Bou- 
chage.” 

“ Good ; I see that the faro of Brussels and the beer of 
Louvain have not clouded your intellects.” 

“Oh ! no, monseigneur, I am more ingenious than ever.” 

“ Then call up all your imagination, and guess.” 

“Well ! I guess that your highness is envious.” 

“ Ah ! parbleu, I always am ; but what is it about just 
now ?” 

“ You wish to know who is the brave creature who has fol- 
lowed the MM. de Joyeuse through fire and water?” 

“ You have just hit it, ‘per mille pericula Martis !’ as Margot 
would say. Apropos, have you written to her, Aurilly ? ' 

“ To whom, monseigneur ?” 

“To my sister Margot.” 

“ Had I to write to her ?” 

“ Certainly ” 

“ About what ?” 

“ To tell her that we are beaten — ruined, and that she must 
look out for herself ; for that Spain, disembarrassed of me in 
the north, will fall on her in the south.” 

“ Ah ! true.” 

“ You have not written ?” 

“ No, monseigneur.” 

“ You slept ?” 

“ Yes, I confess it ; but even if I had thought of it, with 
what could I have written? I have here neither pen, paper, 
nor ink.” 

“Well, seek. ‘Quare et invenies,’ as it is written.” 

“ How in the devil’s name am I to find it in the hut of a 
peasant, who probably did not know how to write ?” 

“ Seek, stupid ! if you do not find that, you will find ” 

“What?” 

“ Something else.” 

“ Oh ! fool that I was,” cried Aurilly. “ Your highness is 
right; I am stupid ; but I am very sleepy, you see.” 

“ Well, keep awake for a little while, and, since you have not 
written, I will write ; only go and seek what is necessary. Go, 
Aurilly, and do not come back till you have found it ; I will 
remain here.” 


3-8 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


“I go, monseigneur. ” 

“ And if, in your researches, you discover that the house 
is picturesque — you know how I admire Flemish interiors, 
Aurilly.” 

“Yes, monseigneur.” 

“Well! call me.” 

“Immediately, monseigneur; be easy.” 

Aurilly rose, and, with a step light as a bird, went up the 
staircase. In five minutes he returned to his master. 

“ Well ?” asked he. 

“ Well, monseigneur, if I may believe appearances, the house 
is devilishly picturesque.” 

“ How so ?” 

“ Peste ! monseigneur ; because one cannot get in to look.” 

“ What do you mean ?” 

“ I mean that it is guarded by a dragon.” 

“ What foolish joke is this ?” 

“ Oh ! monseigneur, it is unluckily not a foolish joke, but a 
sad truth. The treasure is on the first floor, in a room in which 
I can see light through the door.” 

“Well ?” 

“ Well ! before this door lies a man, wrapped in a gray 
cloak.” 

“ Oh, oh ! M. du Bouchage puts a gendarme at the door of 
his mistress.” 

“It is not a gendarme, monseigneur, but some attendant of 
the lady’s or of the count’s.” 

“ What kind of a man ?” 

“ Monseigneur, it was impossible to see his face ; but I could 
perfectly see a large Flemish knife in his belt, and his hand 
on it.” 

“ It is amusing ; go and waken the fellow.” 

“ Oh, no, monseigneur. ” 

“ Why not ?” 

“ Why, without counting the knife, I do not wish to amuse 
myself with making a mortal enemy of MM. de Joyeuse, who 
stand so well at court. If you had been king of this country, 
it might have passed ; but now you must be gracious, above all 
with those who saved you, and Joyeuse did save you. They 
will say so, whether you do or not.” 

“ You are right, Aurilly, and yet — and yet ” 

“ I understand. Your highness has not seen a woman’s face 


ONE OF THE DUC D' ANJOU'S SOUVENIRS. 329 

for fifteen mortal days. I do not speak of the kind of animals 
who live here ; they are males and females, but do not deserve 
to be called men and women.” 

“ 1 must see this lady, Aurilly.” 

“ Well, monseigneur, you may see her ; but not through the 
door.” 

“So be it ; then I will see her through the window.” 

“ Ah ! that is a good idea, and I will go and look for a ladder 
for you.” 

Aurilly glided into the courtyard, and under a shed found 
what he wanted. He manoeuvred it amongst horses and men 
so skilfully as to wake no one, and placed it in the street agamst 
he outer wall. It was necessary to be a prince, and sovereignly 
disdainful of vulgar scruples, to dare in the presence of the 
sentinel, who walked up and down before the door, to accom- 
plish an action so audaciously insulting to Du Bouchage. 
Aurilly felt this, and pointed out the sentinel, who, now observ- 
ing, called out, “ Qui vive !” 

Francis shrugged his shoulders and walked up to him. 

“ My friend,” said he, “ this place is the most elevated spot 
in the village, is it not ?” 

“ Yes, monseigneur,” said the man, recognising him, “ and 
were it not for those lime trees, we could see over a great part 
of the country.” 

“ I thought so; and therefore I have brought a ladder,” said 
the duke. “ Go up, Aurilly, or rather, let me go up ; I will see 
for myself.” 

“ Where shall I place it ?” said the hypocritical follower. 

“ Oh, anywhere ; against that wall, for instance.” 

The sentinel walked off, and the duke mounted the ladder, 
Aurilly standing at the foot. 

The room in which Henri had placed Diana was matted, 
and had a large oaken bed with serge curtains, a table, and a 
few chairs. 

Diana, whose heart seemed relieved from an enormous weight 
since she had heard the false news of the duke’s death, had, 
almost for the first time since her father’s death, eaten something 
more substantial than bread, and drunk a little wine. After this 
she grew sleepy, and Remy had left her, and was sleeping out- 
side her door, not from any suspicion, but because such had been 
his habit ever since they had left Paris. 

Diana herself slept with her elbow on the table and her head 


330 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN, 


leaning on her hand. A little lamp burned on the table, and 
all looked peaceful here, where such tempestuous emotions had 
raged and would soon again. In the glass sparkled the Rhine 
wine, scarcely touched by Diana. She, with her eyes closed, her 
eyelids veined with azure, her mouth slightly opened, her hair 
thrown back, looked like a sublime vision to the eyes that were 
violating the sanctity of her retreat. The duke, on perceiving 
her, could hardly repress his admiration, and leaned over to 
examine every detail of her ideal beauty. But all at once he 
frowned, and came down two or three steps with a kind of 
nervous precipitation, and leaning back against the wall, crossed 
his arms and appeared to reflect. Aurilly watched him as he 
stood there, with a dreamy air, like a man trying to recall some 
old souvenir. After a few minutes he remounted and looked in 
again, but Aurilly called out, “ Quick ! quick ! monseigneur, 
come down ; I hear steps.” 

The duke came down, but slowly. 

“ It was time,” said Aurilly. 

“Whence comes the sound ?” 

“From there,” said Aurilly, pointing to a dark street. “ But 
the sound has ceased ; it must have been some spy watching 
us.” 

“ Remove the ladder.” 

Aurilly obeyed ; however, no one appeared, and they heard 
no more noise. 

“ Well, monseigneur, is she beautiful ?” said Aurilly. 

“Very beautiful,” said the prince, abstractedly. 

“ What makes you sad then ? Did she see you ?” 

“ No, she was asleep.” 

“ Then what is the matter ?” 

“ Aurilly, it is strange, but I have seen that woman some- 
where.” 

“ You recognised her, then ?” 

“No, I could not think of her name; but her face gave me 
a fearful shock. I cannot tell how it is ; but I believe I did 
wrong to look.” 

“ However, just on account of the impression she has made 
on you, we must find out who she is.” 

“Certainly we must.” 

“Seek well in your memory, monseigneur; is it at court you 
have seen her ?” 

“No, I think not.” 


ONE OF TI 1 E DUC D' ANJOU'S SOUVENIRS. 331 

“ In France, Navarre, Flanders?” 

“ No.” 

“A Spaniard perhaps.” 

“ I do not think so.” 

“ An English lady, one of Queen Elizabeth’s ?” 

“ No, I seem to know her more intimately, and that she 
appeared to me in some terrible scene.” 

“Then you would have recognised her at once; you have 
not seen many such scenes.” 

“ Do you think so ?” said the duke, with a gloomy smile. 
“ Now,” continued he, “ that I am sufficiently master of myself 
to analyse my sensations, I feel that this woman is beautiful, but 
with the beauty of death ; beautiful as a shade, as a figure in a 
dream ; and I have had two or three frightful dreams in my life, 
which left me cold at the heart. Well, now I am sure that it 
was in one of those dreams that I saw that woman.” 

“ Your highness is not generally so susceptible, and but that 
I believe that we are watched from that street, I would mount 
in my turn and look.” 

“ Ma foi, you are right, Aurilly ; what does it matter whether 
we are watched or not ? Go up and look.” 

Aurilly made a move forward to obey, when a hasty step was 
heard, and Henri’s voice, crying, “ Monseigneur !” 

“ You here !” said the duke, while Aurilly bounded back to 
his side ; “ you here, comte ? — on what pretext have you quitted 
your post ?” 

“Monseigneur,” replied Henri, firmly, “your highness can 
punish me, if you think proper : meanwhile, my duty was to 
come here, and I came.” 

The duke glanced towards the window. “ Your duty, comte ? 
Explain that to me,” said he. 

“ Monseigneur, horsemen have been seen on the Spanish 
side of the river, and we do not know if they are friends or 
enemies.” 

“ Numerous ?” asked the duke, anxiously. 

“ Very numerous, monseigneur.” 

“ Well, comte, no false bravery ; you will do well to return. 
Awake the gendarmes and let us decamp ; it will be the most 
prudent plan.” 

“ Doubtless, monseigneur ; but it will be urgent, I think, to 
warn my brother.” 

“ Two men will do.” - 


33 2 


THE FORTY- FIVE GUARDSMEN, 


“ Then I will go with a gendarme.” 

“ No, no, Du Bouchage ; you must come with us. Peste ! 
it is not at such q, moment that I can separate from a defender 
like you.” 

“ When does your highness set out ?” said Henri, bowing. 

“ At once, comte.” 

“ Hola ! some one,” cried Henri. 

The young ensign came out immediately from the dark street. 
Henri gave his orders, and soon the place was filled with gen- 
darmes preparing for departure. Among them the duke talked 
with his officers. 

“ Gentlemen,” said he, “ the Prince of Orange is pursuing 
me, it seems ; but it is not proper that a son of France should 
be taken prisoner. Let us, therefore, yield to numbers, and 
fall back upon Brussels. I shall be sure of life and liberty 
whilst I rem lin amongst you.” 

Then, turning to Aurilly, “You remain,” said he. “This 
woman cannot follow us. Joyeuse will not dare to bring her 
with him in my presence. Besides, we are not going to a ball, 
and the race we shall run would fatigue a lady.” 

“ Where are you going, monseigneur ?” 

“ To France. I think my business is over here.” 

“ But to what part of France. Does monseigneur think it 
prudent to return to court ?” 

“No ; I shall stop at one of my castles, Chateau-Thierry, for 
example.” 

“ Has your highness decided on that ?” 

“ Yes ; Chateau-Thierry suits me in all respects ; it is a 
good distance from Paris, about twenty-eight leagues, and I 
can watch from thence MM. de Guise, who are half the year 
at Soissons. So bring the beautiful unknown to Chateau- 
Thierry.” 

“ But, monsieur, perhaps she will not be brought.” 

“ Nonsense ; since Du Bouchage accompanies me, and she 
follows him, it will be quite natural.” 

“But she may wish to go somewhere else, if she sees that 1 
wish to bring her to you.” 

“ But I repeat that it is not to me that you are to bring 
her, but to the comte. Really, one would think it was the 
first time you had aided me in such circumstances. Have you 
money ?” 

“ I have the two rouleaux of gold that you gave me when 
you left the camp.” 


333 


ONE OF THE DEC D' ANJOU'S SOUVENIRS. 

“Well, by any and every method, bring me the lady to Cha- 
teau-Thierry ; perhaps when I see her nearer I shall recognise 
her.” 

“ And the man also ?” 

“ Yes ; if he is not troublesome.” 

“ But if he is ?” 

“ Do with him what you would do with a stone which is in 
your way — throw it away.” 

“Good, monseigneur.” 

While the two conspirators formed their plans, Henri went 
up and woke Remy. He knocked at the door in a peculiar 
fashion, and it was almost immediately opened by Diana. Be- 
hind Remy she perceived Henri. 

“ Good evening, monsieur,” said she, with a smile which had 
long been foreign to her face. 

“ Oh ! pardon me, madame,” said Henri, “ for intruding on 
you ; but I come to make my adieux.” 

“ Your adieux, comte ; you are going ?” 

“ To France, madame.” 

“ And you leave us ?” 

“ I am forced to do so , my duty is to obey the prince.” 

“ The prince ; is there a prince here ?” asked Remy. 

“ Yes, M. le Due d’Anjou, who was believed dead, and who 
has been miraculously saved, has joined us.” 

Diana uttered a terrible cry, and Remy turned as pale as 
though he had been suddenly struck with death. 

“ The Due d’Anjou living !” cried Diana. “ The Due d’Anjou 
here ?” 

“ Had he not been here, madame, and ordered me to follow 
him, I should have accompanied you to the convent into which 
you tell me you are about to retire.” 

“Yes, yes,” said Remy; “the convent;” and he put his 
finger on his lip. 

“I would have accompanied you the more willingly, ma- 
dame,” said Henri ; “ because I fear that you may be annoyed 
by the prince’s people.” 

“How so ?” 

“ Yes ; I believe that he knows there is a lady here, and he 
thinks that she is a friend of mine.” 

“ And what makes you think so ?” 

“ Our young ensign saw him place a ladder against this win- 
dow, and look in.” 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


33 * 

“ Oh !” cried Diana; “ mon Dieu ! mon Dieu !” 

“ Reassure yourself, madame ! he heard him say that he did 
not know you. Besides, the duke is going to set off at once — 
in a quarter of an hour you will be alone and free. Permit me 
to salute you with respect, and to tell you once more, that till 
my last sigh, my heart will beat for you and with you. Adieu, 
madame, adieu.” And the comte, bowing, took two steps 
back. 

“ No, no !” cried Diana, wildly, “ no, God cannot have done 
this ! He cannot have brought this man to life again ; no, 
monsieur, you must be wrong, he is dead.” 

At this moment, as if in reply, the duke’s voice was heard 
calling from below : 

“ Comte, we are waiting for you.” 

“ You hear him, madame,” said Henri. “ For the last time, 
adieu.” 

And pressing Remy’s hand, he flew down the staircase. 
Diana approached the window trembling, and with a convulsive 
shudder, like the bird fascinated by the serpent of the Antilles. 
She saw the duke on horseback, and the light of the torches 
held by the gendarmes fell on his face. 

“ Oh ! he lives ! the demon lives !” murmured she ; “and we 
must live also. He is setting out for France ; so be it, Remy, 
v/e also must go to France.” 


CHAPTER LXXV 

HOW AURILLY EXECUTED THE COMMISSION OF THE DUC 

d’anjou. 

To the confusion occasioned by the departure of the troops a 
profound silence succeeded. When Remy believed the house 
to be empty, he went down to prepare for his departure and 
that of Diana ; but on opening the door of the room below, 
he was much surprised to see a man sitting by the fire, evi- 
dently watching him, although he pretended to look careless. 
Remy approached, according to his custom, with a slow, halting 
step, and uncovering his head, bald like that of an old man. 
He could not, however, see the features of the man by the 
fir;. 


HO W A URIL L Y EXE C UTED HIS COMMISSION. 335 

“ Pardon, monsieur,” said he, “ I thought myself alone 
here.” 

“ I also thought so,” replied the man, “ but I see with p’ea- 
sure that I shall have companions.” 

“ Oh ! very sad companions, monsieur ; for except an invalid 
young man whom I am taking back to France ” 

“ Ah !” said Aurilly, “ I know whom you mean.” 

“ Really.” 

“ Yes ; you mean the young lady.” 

“ What young lady ?” 

“ Oh ! do not be angry, my good friend ; I am the steward 
of the house of Joyeuse, and I rejoined my young master by 
his brother’s order, and at his departure the comte recommended 
to my good offices a young lady and an old servant, who were 
returning to France.” 

As he thus spoke, he approached Remy with a smiling and 
affectionate look. But Remy stepped back, and a look of 
horror was painted for an instant on his face. 

“You do not reply ; one would say you were afraid of me,” 
said Aurilly, with his most smiling face. 

“ Monsieur,” replied Remy, “ pardon a poor old man, whom 
his misfortunes and his rounds have rendered timid and sus- 
picious.” 

“ All the more reason, my friend, for accepting the help and 
support of an honest companion ; besides, as I told you just 
now, I speak on the part of a master who must inspire you with 
confidence.” 

“Assuredly, monsieur,” replied Remy, who, however, still 
moved back. 

“ You quit me,” said Aurilly. 

“ I must consult my mistress ; I can decide nothing, you 
understand.” 

“ Oh ! that is natural ; but permit me to present myself. I 
will explain my directions in all their details.” 

“ No, no, thank you : madame is perhaps asleep, and her 
sleep is sacred to me.” 

“ As you wish. Besides, I have told you what my master 
told me to say.” 

“To me ?” 

“ To you and the young lady.” 

“ Your master, M. le Comte du Bouchage, you mean ?” 

“Yes.” 


336 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN , . 


“ Thank you, monsieur.” 

When he had shut the door, all the appearances of age 
vanished, except the bald head, and Remy mounted the stair- 
case with an agility more like a young man of twenty-five, than 
the old man he had appeared to be a few minutes before. 

“ Madame ! madame !” cried he, in an agitated voice. 

“ Well, what is it, Remy is not the duke gone ?” 

“ Yes, madame, but there is a worse demon here ; a demon 
on whom, during six years, I have daily called down heaven’s 
vengeance, as you have on his master.” 

“ Aurilly ?” 

“ Yes, Aurilly ; the wretch is below, forgotten by his infernal 
accomplice.” 

“ Forgotten, do you say, Remy ? Oh ! you are wrong ; you, 
who know the duke, know that he never leaves to chance any 
evil deed, if he can do it himself. No, no, Remy ; Aurilly is 
not forgotten, but left here for some bad design, believe me !” 

“ Oh ! about him, madame, I can believe anything.” 

“ Does he know me ?” 

“ I do not think so.” 

“ And did he recognise you ?” 

“ Oh ! madame,” said Remy, with a sad smile, “ no one 
recognises me.” 

“ Perhaps he guesses who I am ?” 

“No, for he asked to see you.” 

“ I am sure he must have suspicions.” 

“In that case nothing is more easy, and I thank God for 
pointing out our path so plainly. The village is deserted, the 
wretch is alone. I saw a poniard in his belt, but I have a 
knife in mine.” 

“ One moment, Remy ; I do not ask the life of that wretch 
of you, but before you kill him, let us find out what he wants of 
us ; perhaps we may make his evil intentions useful. How did 
he represent himself to you, Remy ?” 

“As the steward of M. du Bouchage, madame.” 

“ You see he lies ; therefore, he has some reason for lying. 
Let us find out his intentions, and conceal our own.” 

“I will act as you wish, madame.” 

“ What does he ask now ?” 

“To accompany us.” 

“ In what character ?” 

“As the count’s steward.” 


nOW AURll.LY EXECUTED HIS COMMISSION. 337 

“ Tell him I accept.” 

“ Oh ! madame.” 

“ Add that I am thinking of going to England, where I have 
relations, but have not quite decided ; lie like him, Remy ; to 
conquer we must fight with equal arms.” 

“ But he will see you ?” 

“ I will wear my mask. Besides, I suspect he knows me.” 

“ Then, if he knows you, there must be a snare.” 

“ Let us pretend to fall into it.” 

“ But ” 

“ What do you fear, we can but die ? Are you not ready to 
die for the accomplishment of our vow ?” 

“Yes, but not to die without vengeance.” 

“ Remy,” cried Diana, her eyes sparkling with wild excite- 
ment, “ be easy, we will be revenged ; you on the servant, and 
I on the master.” 

“ Well, madame, then, so be it.” 

And Remy went down, but still hesitating. 

The brave young man had, at the sight of Aurilly, felt, in 
spite of himself, that nervous shudder that one feels at the sight 
of a reptile ; he wished to kill him because he feared him. 
But as he went down, his resolution returned, and he deter- 
mined, in spite of Diana's opinion, to interrogate Aurilly — to 
confound him, and if he discovered that he had any evil inten- 
tions, to kill him on the spot. 

Aurilly waited for him impatiently. Remy advanced armed 
with an unshakable resolution, but his words were quiet and 
calm. 

“ Monsieur,” said he, “ my mistress cannot accept your 
proposal.” 

“ And why not ?” 

“ Because you are not the steward of M. du Bouchage.” 

Aurilly grew pale. “ Who told you so ?” said he. 

“No one ; but M. du Bouchage, when he left, recommended 
to my care the person whom I accompany, and never spoke of 
you.” 

“ He only saw me after he left you.” 

“ Falsehoods, monsieur ; falsehoods.” 

Aurilly drew himself up — Remy looked like an old man. 

“ You speak in a singular tone, my good man,” said he, 
frowning ; “ take care, you are old, and I am young ; you are 
feeble, and I am strong.” 


22 


338 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


Remy smiled, but did not reply. 

“ If I wished ill to you or your mistress,” continued Aurilly,“ I 
have but to raise my hand.” 

“ Oh !” said Remy, “ perhaps I was wrong, and you wish to 
do her good.” 

“ Certainly I do.” 

“ Explain to me then what you desire/ 

“ My friend, I will make your fortune at once, if you will 
serve me.” 

“ And if not ?” 

“ In that case, as you speak frankly, I will reply as frankly, that 
I will kill you ; I have full power to do so.” 

“ Kill me !” said Remy. “ But if I am to serve you, I must 
know your projects.” 

“ Well, you have guessed rightly, my good man ; I do not 
belong to the Comte du Bouchage.” 

“ Ah ! and to whom do you belong ?” 

“To a more powerful lord.” 

“Take care ; you are lying again.” 

“ Why so?” 

“There are not many people above the house of Joyeuse.” 

“ Not that of France ?” 

“ Oh ! oh !” 

“ And see how they pay,” said Aurilly, sliding into Remy’s 
hand one of the rouleaux of gold. 

Remy shuddered and took a step back, but controlling himself, 
said : 

“ You serve the king?” 

“ No, but his brother, the Due d’Anjou. v 

“ Oh ! very well ! I am the duke’s most humble servant.” 

“ That is excellent.” 

“ But what does monseigneur want ?” 

“ Monseigneur,” said Aurilly, trying again to slip the gold into 
Remy’s hand, “ is in love with your mistress.” 

“ He knows her, then ?” 

“ He has seen her.” 

“ Seen her ! when ?” 

“ This evening.” 

“ Impossible ; she has not left her room.” 

“No, but the prince, by his conduct, has shown that he is 
really in love.” 

“ Why, what did he do ?” 


HOW AURILLY EXECUTED HIS COMMISSION. 339 

: “Took a ladder and climbed to the balcony.” 

“ Ah ! he did that ?” 

“ Yes, and it seems she is very beautiful.” 

“ Then you have not seen her ?” 

“ No ; but from what he said I much wish to do so, if only to 
judge of the exaggeration of his love. Thus, then, it is agreed ; 
you will aid me ?” and he again offered him the gold. 

“ Certainly I will, but I must know what part I am to play,” 
said Remy, repulsing his hand. 

“ First tell me is the lady the mistress of M. de Bouchage, or 
of his brother ?” 

The blood mounted to Remy’s face. 

“ Of neither,” said he ; “ the lady upstairs nas no lover.” 

“No lover ! But then she is a wonder ; morbleu ! a woman 
who has no lover ! we have found the philosopher’s stone.” 

“ Then,” said Remy, “ what does M. le Due d’ Anjou want 
my mistress to do ?” 

“ He wants her to come to Chateau-Thierry, where he is going 
at his utmost speed.” 

“ This is, upon my word, a passion very quickly conceived.” 

“That is like monseigneur.” 

“ I only see one difficulty,” said Remy. 

“ What is that ?” 

“ That my mistress is about to embark for England.” 

“ Diable ! this, then, is where you must try to aid me.” 

“ How?” 

“ By persuading her to go in an opposite direction.” 

“You do not know my mistress, monseigneur; she is not 
easily persuaded. Besides, even if she were persuaded to go to 
Chateau-Thierry instead of England, do you think she would 
yield to the prince ?” 

“ Why not ?” 

“ She does not love the duke.” 

“ Bah ! not love a prince of the blood.” 

“ But if monseigneur the Due d’ Anjou suspects my mistress 
of loving M. du Bouchage, or M. de Joyeuse, how did he come 
to think of carrying her off from him she loved ?” 

“ My good man,” said Aurilly, “ you have trivial ideas, and 
I fear we shall never understand each other ; I .have preferred 
kindness to violence, but if you force me to change my plans, 
well ! I will change them.” 

“ What will you do ?” 

L_ 


22—2 


340 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


“ I told you I had full powers from the duke to kill you and 
carry off the lady.” 

“ And you believe you could do it with impunity ?” 

“ I believe all my master tells me to believe. Come, will 
you persuade your mistress to come to France ?” 

“ I will try, but I can answer for nothing.” 

u And when shall I have the answer ?” 

“ I will go up at once and see what I can do.” 

“ Well, go up ; I will wait. But one last word ; you know 
that your fortune and life hang on your answer.” 

“ I know it.” 

“ That will do ; I will go and get the horses ready.” 

“ Do not be in too great a hurry.” 

“ Bah ! I am sure of the answer ; no one is cruel to a 
prince.” 

“I fancied that happened sometimes.” 

“Yes, but very rarely.” 

While Remy went up, Aurilly proceeded to the stables with- 
out feeling any doubt as to the result. 

“ Well !” said Diana, on seeing Remy. 

“ Well, madame, the duke has seen you.” 

“And ” 

“And he sa"s he loves you.” 

‘ Loves me j but you are mad, Remy.” 

“ No ; I tell you that he — that man — fhat wretch, Aurilly, 
told me so.” 

“ But, then, he recognised me ?” 

“ If he had, do you think that Aurilly would have dared to 
present himself and talk to you of love in the prince’s name ? 
No, he did not recognise you.” 

“ Yee, you must be right, Remy. So many things have 
passed during six years through that infernal brain, that he has 
forgotten me. Let us follow this man.” 

“ But this man will recognise you.” 

“Why should his memory be better than his master’s?” 

“ Oh ! it is his business to remember, while it is the duke’s 
to forget. How could he live if he did not forget? But 
Aurilly will not have forgotten ; he will recognise you, and will 
denounce you as an avenging shade.” 

' “ Remy, I thought I told you I had a mask, and that you 
told me you had a knife.” 

“ It is true, madame ; and I begin to think that God is assist- 


HOW A UR ILLY EXECUTED HIS COMMISSION. 341 

ing us to punish the wicked.” Then, calling Aurilly from the 
top of the staircase, “ Monsieur,” said he. 

“ Well !” replied Aurilly. 

“ My mistress thanks M. du Bouchage for having provided 
thus for her safety, and accepts with gratitude your obliging offer.” 
It is well,” said Aurilly, “ the horses are ready.” 

“Come, madame, come,” said Remy, offering his arm to 
Diana. 

Aurilly waited at the bottom of the staircase, lantern in hand, 
all anxiety to see the lady. 

“ Diable !” murmured he, “ she has a mask. But between 
this and Chateau-Thierry the silk cords will be worn out or cut.” 


CHAPTER LXXVI. 

THE JOURNEY. 

They set off. Aurilly affected the most perfect equality with 
Remy, and showed to Diana the greatest respect. But this 
respect was very interested. Indeed, to hold the stirrup of a 
woman when she mounts or dismounts, to watch each of her 
movements with solicitude, to let slip no occasion of picking 
up her glove, is the role either of a lover, a servant, or a spy. 
In touching Diana’s glove Aurilly saw her hand, in clasping her 
cloak he peeped under her mask, and always did his utmost to 
see that face which the duke had not been able to recog- 
nise, but which he doubted not he should be able to. But 
Aurilly had to deal with one as skilful as himself ; Remy 
claimed to perform his ordinary services to Diana, and seemed 
jealous of Aurilly, while Diana herself, without appearing to 
have any suspicions, begged Aurilly not to interfere with the 
services which her old attendant was accustomed to render to 
her. Aurilly was then reduced tc hoping for rain or sun to 
make her remove her mask ; but neither rain nor sun had any 
effect, and whenever they stopped Diana took her meals in her 
own room. Aurilly tried to look through the keyholes, but 
Diana always sat with her back to the door. He tried to peep 
through the windows, but there were always thick curtains drawn, 
or if none were there, cloaks were hung up to supply their 
place. Neither questions, nor attempts at corruption, suc- 
ceeded with Remy, who always declared that his mistress’s will 
was his. 


342 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN . 


“ But these precautions are, then, taken o ily on my account ?” 
said Aurilly. 

“No, for everybody.” 

“ But M. d’Anjou saw her ; she was not hidden then.” 

“ Pure chance ; but it is just because he did see her that she 
is more careful than ever.” 

Days passed on, and they were nearing their destination, 
but Aurilly ’s curiosity had not been gratified. Already Picardy 
appeared to the eyes of the travellers. 

Aurilly began to lose patience, and the bad passions of his 
nature to gain the ascendant. He began to suspect some secret 
under all this mystery. One day he remained a little behind 
with Remy, and renewed his attempts at seduction, which Remy 
repulsed as usual. 

“But,” said Aurilly, “some day or other I must see your 
mistress.” 

“ Doubtless,” said Remy ; “ but that will be when she likes, 
and not when you like.” 

“ But if I employ force.” 

“Try,” said Remy, while a lightning glance, which he could 
not repress, shot from his eyes. 

Aurilly tried to laugh. “ What a fool I am !” said he ; “ what 
does it matter to me who she is ? She is the same person whom 
the duke saw.” 

“ Certainly.” 

“ And whom he told me to bring to Chateau-Thierry.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Well ! that is all that is necessary. It is not I w r ho am in 
love with her, it is monseigneur ; and provided that you do not 
seek to escape or fly ” 

“ Do we appear to wish to do so ?” 

“No.” 

“ And she so little desires to do so, that \vere you not here we 
should continue our way to Chateau-Thierry ; if the duke wishes 
to see us, we wish also to see him.” 

“ That is capital,” said Aurilly. “ Would your mistress like 
to rest here a little while ?” continued he, pointing to an hotel on 
the road. 

“You know,” said Remy, “that my mistress never stops but 
in towns.” 

“ Well, I, who have made no such vow, will stop here a mo- 
ment ; ride on, and I will follow.” 


THE JOURNEY, 


343 


Remy rejoined Diana. 

“ What was he saying ?” asked she. 

“He expressed his constant desire ” 

“To see me ?” 

“Yes.” 

Diana smiled. , 

“ He is furious,” continued Remy. 

“ He shall not see me ; of that I am determined.” 

“ But once we are at Chateau-Thierry, must he not see your 
face ?” 

“ What matter, if the discovery come too late ? Besides, the 
duke did not recognise me.” 

“ No, but his follower will. All these mysteries which have 
so annoyed Aurilly for eight days had not existed for the prince; 
they had not excited his curiosity or awakened his souvenirs, 
while for a week Aurilly has been seeking, imagining, suspect- 
ing. Your face will strike on a memory fully awakened, and he 
will know you at once.” 

At this moment they were interrupted by Aurilly, who had 
taken a cross road and come suddenly upon them, in the hope of 
surprising some words of their conversation. The sudden silence 
which followed his arrival proved to him that he was in the way, 
and he therefore rode behind them. 

He instinctively feared something, as Remy had said, but his 
floating conjectures never for an instant approached the truth. 
From this moment his plans were fixed, and in order to execute 
them the better he changed his conduct, and showed himself the 
most accommodating and joyous companion possible during 
the rest of the day. 

Remy remarked this change not without anxiety. 

The next day they started early, and at noon were forced to 
Stop to rest the horses. At two o’clock they set off again, and 
went on without stopping until four. A great forest, that of La 
Fere, was visible in the distance ; it had the sombre and mys- 
sterious aspect of our northern forests, so imposing to southern 
natures, to whom, beyond all things, heat and sunshine are 
necessary ; but it was nothing to Remy and Diana, who were 
accustomed to the thick woods of Anjou and Sologne. It might 
have been about six o’clock in the evening when they entered 
the forest, and after half an hour’s journey the sun began to go 
down. A high wind whirled about the leaves and carried them 
towards a lake, along the shore of which the travellers were 


344 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN 


journeying. Diana rode in the middle, Aurilly on the right, and 
Remy on the left. No other human being was visible under the 
sombre arches of the trees. 

From the long extent of the road, one might have thought 
it one of those enchanted forests, under whose shade nothing 
can live, had it not been for the hoarse howling of the wolves 
waking up at the approach of night. All at once Diana felt 
that her saddle, which had been put on by Aurilly, was slip- 
ping. She called Remy, who jumped down, and began to tighten 
the girths. At this moment Aurilly approached Diana, and 
while she was occupied, cut the strings of silk which fastened her 
mask. Before she had divined the movement, or had time to 
put up her hand, Aurilly seized the mask, and looked full at 
her. The eyes of these two people met with a look so terrible, 
that no one could have said which looked most pale and menac- 
ing. Aurilly let the mask and his dagger fall, and clasping his 
hands, cried, “ Heavens and earth ! Madame de Monsoreau !” 

“ It is a name which you shall repeat no more,” cried Remy, 
seizing him by the girdle, and dragging him from his horse. Both 
rolled on the ground together, and Aurilly stretched out his hand 
to reach his dagger. 

“ No, Aurilly, no,” said Remy, placing his knee on his breast 

“ Le Haudoin 1” cried Aurilly ; “ oh, I am a dead man !” 

“That is not yet true, but will be in a moment,” cried 
Remy ; and drawing his knife, he plunged the whole blade into 
the throat of the musician. 

Diana, with haggard eyes* half turned on her saddle, and 
leaning on the pommel, shuddering, but pitiless, had not turned 
her head away from this terrible spectacle. However, when 
she saw the blood spirt out from the wound, she fell from 
her ’horse as though she were dead. 

Remy did not occupy himself with her at that terrible mo- 
ment, but searched Aurilly, took from him the two rouleaux 
of gold, then tied a stone to the neck of the corpse, and threw 
it into the lake. He then washed his hands in the water, 
took in his arms Diana, who was still unconscious, and placed 
her again on her horse. That of Aurilly, frightened by the 
howling of the wolves, which began to draw nearer, had fled 
into the woods. 

When Diana recovered herself, she and Remy, without ex- 
changing a single word, continued their route towards Chateau- 
Thierry. 


CHICOT INVITES HIMSELF TO BEE A FEAST. 345 


CHAPTER LXXVIT. 

HOW KING HENRI III. DID NOT INVITE CRILLON TO BREAK- 
FAST, AND HOW CHICOT INVITED HIMSELF. 

The day after the events that we have just related had taken 
place in the forest of La Fere, the King of France left his 
bath at about nine in the morning. His valet-de-chambre, 
after having rolled him in a blanket of fine wool, and sponged 
him with that thick Persian wadding which looks like the 
fleece of a sheep, had given him over to the barbers and 
dressers, who in their turn gave place to the perfumers and 
courtiers. When these last were gone, the king sent for his 
maitre d’hotel, and ordered something more than his ordinary 
bouillon, as he felt hungry that morning. This good news 
spread joy throughout the Louvre, and the smell of the viands 
was already beginning to be perceptible, when Crillon, colonel 
of the French guards, entered to take his majesty’s orders. 

“ Ma foi, my good Crillon,” said the king, “ watch as you 
please over my safety, but do not force me to play the king. 
I am quite joyful and gay this morning, and feel as if I weighed 
but an ounce, and could fly away. I am hungry, Crillon ; do 
you understand that, my friend ?” 

“I understand it very well, sire, for I am very hungry 
myself.” 

“ Oh ! you, Crillon,” said the king, laughing, “ are always 
hungry.” 

“Not always, sire; your majesty exaggerates — only three 
times a day.” 

“And I about once a year, when I receive good news.” 

“ Harnibleu ! it appears that you have received good news, 
sire ? So much the better, for they become every day more 
rare.” 

“Not at all, Crillon ; but you know the proverb.” 

“ Ah ! yes — ‘ no news are good news.’ I do not trust to pro- 
verbs, and above all to that one. You have no news from Navarre- 
then ?” 

“None — a proof that there is nothing to tell.” 

“ And from Flanders ?” 

“ Nothing.” 

“A proof that they are fighting. And from Paris?” 


THE FORTY- FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


34 $ 

“ Nothing.” 

“A proof that they are plotting.” 

“ But, Crillon, I believe I am going to have a child, for the 
queen dreamed so last night.” 

“ Well ! I am happy to hear that your majesty is hungry this 
morning. Adieu, sire.” 

“ Go, my good Crillon.” 

“ Harnibleu ! sire, since your majesty is so hungry, you ought 
to invite me to breakfast with you.” 

“ Why so, Crillon ?” 

“ Because they say your majesty lives on air, and the air of 
the times is very bad. Now I should have been happy to be 
able to say, ‘ These are all pure calumnies ; the king eats like 
every one else.’ ” 

“ No, Crillon, no ; let me believe as they do. I do not wish 
to eat like a simple mortal. Remember this, Crillon — a king 
ought always to remain poetical, and only show himself in a noble 
position. Thus, for example, do you remember Alexander ?” 

“ What Alexander ?” 

“ Alexander Magnus. Ah ! you do not know Latin, I re- 
member. Well, King Alexander loved to bathe before his 
soldiers, because he was so well made, handsome, and plump, 
that they compared him to Apollo and even to. Antinoiis.” 

“ Oh ! oh ! sire, you would be devilishly in the wrong to 
bathe before yours, for you are very thin, my poor king.” 

“Brave Crillon, go,” said Henry, striking him^ on the 
shoulder ; “ you are an excellent fellow, and do not flatter me ; 
you are no courtier, my old friend.” 

“ That is why you do not invite me to breakfast,” replied 
Crillon, laughing good-humouredly, and taking his leave quite 
contentedly, for the tap on the shoulder consoled him for not 
getting the breakfast. 

When he was gone, the breakfast was laid at once. The 
maitre d’hotel had surpassed himself. 

A certain partridge soup, with a puree of truffles and chest- 
nuts, attracted the king’s attention, after he had eaten some 
fine oysters. Thus the ordinary broth, that faithful old friend 
of the king’s, implored vainly from its golden basin ; it attracted 
no attention. The king began to attack the partridge soup, and 
was at his fourth mouthful, when a light step near him made the 
floor creak, and a well-known voice behind him said sharply, 
“ A plate !” 


CHICOT INVITES HIMSELF TO BREAKFAST. 347 


The king turned. “ Chicot !” cried he. 

“ Himself.” 

And Chicot, falling at once into his old habits, sat down in a 
chair, took a plate and a fork, and began on the oysters, picking 
cut the finest, without saying a word. 

“You here ! you returned !” cried Henri. 

“ Hush !” said Chicot, with his mouth full ; and he drew the 
soup towards him. 

“ Stop, Chicot ! that is my dish.” 

Chicot divided it equally, and gave the king back half. Then 
he poured himself out some wine, passed from the soup to a 
pate made of tunny fish, then to stuffed crab, swallowed as a 
finish the royal broth, then, with a great sigh, said : 

“ I can eat no more.” 

“ Par la mordieu ! I hope not, Chicot.” 

“ Ah ! good morning, my king. How are you ? You seem 
to me very gay this morning.” 

“ Am I not, Chicot ?” 

“ You have quite a colour ; is it your own ?” 

“ Parbleu !” 

“ I compliment you on it.” 

“ The fact is, I feel very well this morning.” 

“ I am very glad of it. But have you no little tit-bits left for 
breakfast ?” 

“ Here are cherries preserved by the ladies of Montmartre.” 

“ They are too sweet.” 

“Nuts stuffed with raisins.” 

“ Bah ! they have left the stones in the raisins.” 

“ You are not content with anything.” 

“ Well ! really, on my word, everything degenerates, even 
cooking, and you begin to live very badly at your court.” 

“ Do they live better at that of the King of Navarre ?” 

“Well ! — I do not say no.” 

“ Then there must be great changes.” 

“ Ah ! you do not know how right you are.” 

“ Tell me about your journey ! that will amuse me.” 

“ Willingly ; that is what I came for. Where shall I begin ?” 

“ At the beginning. How did you make your journey ?” 

“ Oh ! delightfully.” 

“ And met with no disagreeable adventures — no bad com- 
pany ?” 

“ Oh ! who would dream of annoying an ambassador of his 
most Christian majesty? You calumniate your subjects, my son.” 


34 ^ 


THE FORTY FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


“ I asked,” said the king, flattered by the tranquillity that 
reigned in his kingdom, “ because you had no official character, 
and might have run some risk.” 

“ I tell you, Henriquet, that you have the most charming 
kingdom in the world. Travellers are nourished gratis ; they 
are sheltered for the love of God ; they walk on flowers ; and 
as for the wheel ruts, they are carpeted with velvet and fringed 
with gold. It is incredible, but true.” 

“ Then you are content ?” 

“ Enchanted.” 

“ Yes, yes ; my police is well organised.” 

“ Marvellously ; I must do them justice.” 

“ And the road is safe ?” 

“ As that of Paradise.” 

“ Chicot, we are returning to Virgil.” 

“To what part ?” 

“ To the Bucolics. * O fortunatos nimium !’” 

“ Ah ! very well ; but why this exception in favour of plough- 
men ?” 

“ Alas ! because it is not the same in towns.” 

“ The fact is, Henri, that the towns are the centres of cor- 
ruption.” 

“Judge of it. You go 500 leagues without accident, while 
I go only to Vincennes, three-fourths of a league, and narrowly 
escape assassination by the way.” 

“ Oh ! bah !” 

“ I will tell you about it, my friend ; I am having it written. 
Without my Forty-five Guardsmen I should have been a dead 
man.” 

“ Truly ! where did it take place ?” 

“ You mean, where was it to have taken place ?” 

“ Yes.” 

« At Bel-Esbat.” 

“Near the convent of our friend Gorenflot.” 

“Just so.” 

“ And how did he behave under the circumstances ?” 

“ Wonderfully, as usual. Chicot, I do not know if he had 
heard any rumour ; but instead of snoring in bed, he was up 
in his balcony, while all his convent kept the road.” 

“ And he did nothing else ?” 

« Who ?” ’ 

“Dom Modeste.” , ' * , 


CHICOT INVITES HIMSELF TO BREAKFAST. 349 - 

“ He blessed me with a majesty peculiar to himself, Chicot.” 

“ And his monks ?” 

“ They cried ‘ Vive le Roi !’ tremendously.” 

“ And were they not armed ?” 

“ They were completely armed, which was a wonderful piece 
of thoughtfulness on the part of the worthy prior ; and yet this 
man has said nothing, and asked for nothing. He did not 
come the next day, like D’Epernon, to search my pockets, cry- 
ing, * Sire, something for having saved the king.’ ” 

“ Oh ! as for that, he is incapable of it ; besides, his hands 
would not go into your pockets.” 

“ Chicot, no jests about Dom Modeste ; he is one of the 
greatest men of my reign ; and I declare that on the first 
opportunity I will give him a bishopric.” 

“And you will do well, my king.” 

“ Remark one thing, Chicot, that a great man from the ranks 
of the people is complete ; we gentlemen, you see, inherit in 
our blood certain vices and virtues. Thus, the Valois are 
cunning and subtle, brave, but idle ; the Lorraines are am- 
bitious, greedy, and intriguing ; the Bourbons are sensual, with- 
out ideas, force, or will. Look at Henri : when nature, on the 
contrary, draws a great man from among the people, like Goren- 
flot, he is complete.” 

“ You think so?” 

“ Yes; learned, modest, cunning, and brave, you could make 
of him what you liked — minister, general, or pope.” 

“ Pray stop, sire. If the brave man heard you he would burst 
his skin, for, in spite of what you say, Dom Modeste is very vain.” 

“ You are jealous, Chicot.” 

“I ! Heaven forbid ! Jealous 1” 

“lam but just; noble blood does not blind me. ‘Stemmata 
. quid faciunt?’ ” 

“ Bravo 3 and you say, then, Henri, that you were nearly as- 
sassinated ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ By whom ?” 

“ By the League, mordieu !” 

“ How does the League get on ?” 

“ Just the same.” 

“Which means that it grows daily.” 

“Oh! political bodies never live which grow big too young. 
They are like children, Chicot” 


3So 


THE FORTY- FIVE GUARDSMEN* 


“ Then you are content, my son ?” 

“ Nearly so.” 

‘‘You are happy?” 

“ Yes, Chicot, and I am very glad to see you return.” 

“ ‘ Habemus consulem facetum,’ as Cato said.” 

“ You bring good news, do you not ?” 

“ I should think so.” 

“You keep me in suspense.” 

“ Where shall I begin ?” 

“ I have already said, from the beginning ; but you always 
wander from the point. You say that the journey was good ?” 
“You see I have returned whole.” 

“Yes; then let me hear of your arrival in Navarre. What 
was^Henri doing when you arrived ?” 

“ Making love.” 

“To Margot ?” 

« Oh ! no.” 

“ It would have astonished me had it been so ; he is always 
unfaithful to his wife — the rascal ! Unfaithful to a daughter 
of France ! Luckily, she pays him back. And when you ar- 
rived, what was the name of Margot’s rival ?” 

“ Fosseuse.” 

“ A Montmorency. Come, that is not so bad for a bear of 
Bearn. They spoke here of a peasant, a gardener’s daughter.” 
“Oh ! that is very old.” 

“ Then he is faithless to Margot ?” 

“As much as possible.” 

“ And she is furious ?” 

“ Enraged.” 

“And she revenges herself?” 

“ I believe so.” 

Henri rubbed his hands joyfully. 

“ What will she do ?” cried he. “ Will she move heaven and 
earth — bring Spain on Navarre — Artois and Flanders on Spain ? 
Will she call in her little brother Henriquet against her husband 
Henri ?” 

“ It is possible.” 

“ You saw her ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Then they execrate each other ?” 

* I believe that in their hearts they do not adore each other.” 
“ Bu : in appearance ?” 


CHICOT INVITES HIMSELF TO BREAKFAST 351 

“ They are the best friends in the world. ’ 

“Yes, but some fine morning some new love will embroil 
them completely.” 

“ Well ! this new love has come.” 

“ Bah !” 

“ Yes, on my honour ; but shall I tell you what 1 fear ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ That this new love, instead of embroiling, will reconcile 
them.” 

“ Then there is a new love, really ?” 

“ Oh ! mon Dieu ! yes.” 

“ Of Henri’s ?” 

“ Of Henri’s.” 

“ For whom ?” 

“ You wish to know all, do you not?” 

“ Yes, Chicot ; tell me all about it.” 

“ Well, my son, then I must go back to the beginning.” 

“Go back, but be quick.” 

“ You wrote a letter to the Bdarnais?” 

“ Well r 
“ And I read it.” 

“ What do you think of it?” 

“ That if it was not delicate, at least it was cunning.” 

“ It ought to have embroiled them ?” 

“ Yes, if Henri and Margot had been an ordinary, common- 
place couple.” 

“ What do you mean ?” 

“ I mean that Henri is no fool.” 

“ Oh !” 

“ And that he guessed.” 

“ Guessed what ?” 

“ That you wished to make him quarrel with his wife.” 
“That was clear.” 

“Yes ; but what was less clear was your object in doing so.” 
“ Ah ! diable ! the object ” 

“Yes, this B^arnais thought your aim was to make him 
quarrel with his wife, that you might aot have to pay her 
dowry.” 

“Oh!” 

“ Mon Dieu, yes ; that is what got into the head of that 
devil of a Bearnais.” 

“ Go on, Chicot.” said the king, beginning to look annoyed 


352 


THE FORTY- FIVE GUARDSMEN , i 


'* Well ! scarcely had he guessed that, than he became what 
you look now, sad and melancholy ; so much so, that he hardly 
thought of Fosseuse.” 

“ Bah !” 

“ Yes, really, and then he conceived that other love I told 
you of.” 

“ But this man is a Turk — a Pagan. And what did Margot 
say ?” 

“This time, my son, you will be astonished. Margot was 
delighted.” 

“ But what is the name of this new mistress ?” 

“ Oh ! she is a beautiful and strong person, capable of de- 
fending herself if she is attacked.” 

“ And did she defend herself?” 

“ Oh yes !” 

“ So that Henri was repulsed ?” 

“At first.” 

“ And afterwards ?” 

“ Oh ! Henri is persevering, and he returned to the charge.” 

“ So that ?” 

“ So that he won her.” 

“ How?” 

“ By petards.” 

“What the devil are you talking about ?” 

“ The truth.” 

“ Petards ! Who is this belle that is taken with petards ?” 

“It is Mademoiselle Cahors.” 

“ Mademoiselle Cahors !” 

“ Yes, a large and beautiful girl, who has one foot on the 
Got, and the other on the hills, and whose guardian is, or 
rather was, M. de Vesin, a brave gentleman of my acquaintance.” 

“ Mordieu 1” cried Henri, furiously, “ my city ! he has taken 
my city.” 

“ Why, you see, Henri, you would not give it to him, and he 
was obliged to take it. But, apropos, here is a letter that he 
asked me to deliver into your own hand.” 

And Chicot, drawing out a letter, gave it to the king. It was 
the one Henri had written after taking Cahors, and it finished 
with these words : “ Quod mihi dixisti profuit multum, cog- 
nosco meos devotos ; nosce tuos ; Chicotus caetera expediet.” 

Which meant, “ What you told me was very useful ; I know 
my riends ; know yours. Chicot will tell you the rest.” 


HENRI RECEIVES NEWS FROM THE NORTH 353 


CHAPTER LXXVIII. 

HOW, AFTER RECEIVING NEWS FROM THE SOUTH, HENRI 
RECEIVED NEWS FROM THE NORTH. 

The king, highly exasperated, could hardly read the letter which 
Chicot gave to him. While he deciphered the Latin with every 
sign of impatience, Chicot, before a great Venetian mirror, 
which hung over a gilt table, was admiring the infinite grace of 
his own person under his military dress. 

“ Oh ! I am betrayed,” cried Henri, when he had finished 
the letter; “the Bdarnais had a plan, and I never suspected it.” 

“ My son,” said Chicot, “ you know the proverb, ‘ Still waters 
run deepest * ?” 

“ Go to the devil with your proverbs.” 

Chicot went to the door as if to obey. 

“ No, remain.” 

Chicot stopped. 

“ Cahors taken !” continued Henri. 

“ Yes, and very well done too.” 

“ Then he has generals and engineers ?” 

“No, he is too poor for that; he could not pay them ; he 
does it all himself.” 

“ He fight !” said Henri, disdainfully. 

“ I do not say that he rushes into it with enthusiasm ; no, he 
resembles those people who try the water before they bathe ; 
he just dips the ends of his fingers with a little shudder, which 
augurs badly, then his breast; all this takes him about ten 
minutes, and then he rushes into action, and through fire, like 
a salamander.” 

“ Diable !” 

“And I assure you, Henri, the fire was hot there.” 

The king rose and walked up and down the room. 

“ Here is a misfortune for me,” cried he ; “ they will laugh 
at it : they will sing about it. Mordieu ! it is lucky I thought 
of sending the promised aid to Antwerp ; Antwerp will com- 
pensate for Cahors; the north will blot out the south.” 

“ Amen !” said Chicot, plunging his hands into the king’s 
sweetmeat-box to finish his dessert. 

At this moment the door opened, and the usher announced 
“M. le Comte de Bouchage.” 


23 


354 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


“ Ah !” cried Henri, “I told you so; here are news. Enter, 
comte, enter.” 

The usher opened the door, and Henri du Bouchage entered 
slowly and bent a knee to the king. 

“ Still pale and sad,” said the king. “ Come, friend, take a 
holiday air for a little while, and do not tell me good news with 
a doleful face : speak quickly, Du Bouchage, for I want to hear. 
You come from Flanders ?” 

“Yes, sire.” 

“ And quickly ?” 

‘ As quickly, sire, as a man can ride. ” 

“ You are welcome. And now, what of Antwerp?” 

“ Antwerp belongs to the Prince of Orange.” 

“ To the Prince of Orange 1” 

“ Yes, to William.” 

“ But did not my brother attack Antwerp ?” 

“ Yes, sire ; but now he is travelling to Chateau-Thierry.” 

“ He has left the army ?” 

“ Sire, there is no longer an army.” 

“Oh!” cried the king, sinking back in his aim-chair, “but 
Joyeuse ” 

“ Sire, my brother after having done wonders with his sailors, 
after having conducted the whole of the retreat, rallied the few 
men who escaped the disaster, and sent me home with an escort 
for M. le Due d’ Anjou.” 

“ A defeat !” murmured the king. But all at once, with a 
strange look, “ Then Flanders is lost to my brother ?” 

“Absolutely, sire.” 

“ Without hope ?” 

“ I fear so, sire.” 

The clouds gradually cleared from the king’s brow. 

“ That poor Francis,” said he, smiling; “he is unlucky in 
his search for a crown. He missed that of Navarre, he has 
stretched out his hand for that of England, and has touched 
that of Flanders ; I would wager, Du Bouchage, that he will 
never reign, although he desires it so much. And how many 
prisoners were taken ?” 

“About two thousand.” 

“ How many killed ?” 

“ At least as many ; and among them M. de St. Aignan.” 

“ What ! poor St. Aignan dead !” 

“ Drowned.” 


HENRI RECEIVES NEWS FROM THE NORTH. 355 

“ Drowned ! Did you throw yourselves into the Scheldt ?” 

“No, the Scheldt threw itself upon us.” 

The comte then gave the king a description of the battle, and 
of the inundations. Henri listened silently. When the recital 
was over, he rose, and kneeling down on his prie-dieu, said some 
prayers, and then returned with a perfectly calm face. 

“ Well,” said he, “ I trust I bear things like a king ; and you, 
comte, since your brother is saved, like mine, thank God, and 
smile a little.” 

“ Sire, I am at your orders.” 

“ What do vou ask as payment for your services, Du Bou- 
chage ?” 

“ Sire, I have rendered no service.” 

“ I dispute that ; but at least your brother has.” 

“Immense, sire.” 

“ He has saved the army, you say, or rather, its remnants ?” 

“ There is not a man left who does not say that he owes his life 
to my brother.” 

“ Well ! Du Bouchage, my will is to extend my benefits to 
both, and I only imitate in that Him who made you both rich, 
brave, and handsome ; besides, I should imitate those great 
politicians who always rewarded the bearers of bad news.” 

“ Oh !” said Chicot, “ I have known men hung for bringing 
bad news.” 

“ That is possible,” said the king ; “ but remember the senate 
that thanked Varron.” 

“You cite republicans, Valois; misfortune makes you 
humble.” 

“ Come, Du Bouchage, what will you have — what would you 
like ?” 

“ Since your majesty does me the honour to speak to me so 
kindly, I will dare to profit by your goodness. I am tired of 
life, sire, and yet have a repugnance to shortening it myself, for 
God forbids it, and all the subterfuges that a man of honour 
employs in such a case are mortal sins. To get one’s self killed 
in battle or to let one’s self die of hunger are only different forms 
of suicide. I renounce the idea, therefore, of dying before the 
term which God has fixed for my life, and yet the world fatigues 
me, and I must leave it.” 

“My friend !” said the king. 

Chicot looked with interest at the young man, so beautiful, 
so brave, so rich, and yet speaking in this desponding tone. 

23—2 


356 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


“ Sire,” continued the comte, “ everything that has hap- 
pened to me for some time has strengthened my resolution. I 
wish to throw myself into the arms of God, who is the sovereign 
consoler of the afflicted, as he is of the happy. Deign, then, sire, 
to facilitate my entrance into a religious life, for my heart is sad 
unto death.” 

The king was moved at this doleful request. 

“ Ah ! I understand,” said he ; “ you wish to become a monk, 
but you fear the probation.” 

“ I do not fear the austerities, sire, but the time they leave 
one in indecision. It is not to soften my life, nor to spare 
my body any physical suffering, or my mind any moral pri- 
vation, but it is to pass at once from this world to the grating 
which separates me from it, and which one generally attains so 
slowly.” 

“ Poor boy !” said the king. “ I think he will make a good 
preacher ; will he not, Chicot ?” 

Chicot did not reply. Du Bouchage continued. 

“ You see, sire, that it is with my own family that the struggle 
will take place, and with my relations that I shall meet with the 
greatest opposition. My brother, the cardinal, at once so good 
and so worldly, will find a thousand reasons to persuade me 
against it. At Rome your majesty is all-powerful ; you have 
asked me what I wish for, and promised to grant it ; my wish 
is this, obtain from Rome an authority that my noviciate be dis- 
pensed with.” 

The king rose smiling, and taking the comte’s hand, said — 

“ I will do what you ask, my son. You wish to serve God, and 
you are right ; he is a better master than I am. You have my 
promise, dear comte.” 

“ Your majesty overwhelms me with joy,” cried the young man, 
kissing Henri’s hand as though he had made him duke, peer, or 
marshal of France. “ Then it is settled ?” 

“ On my word as a king and a gentleman.” 

Something like a smile passed over the lips of Du Bouchage; 
he bowed respectfully to the king and took leave. 

“What a happy young man,” said Henri 

“ Oh !” said Chicot, “ you need not envy him ; he is not 
more doleful than yourself.” 

“ But, Chicot, he is going to give himself up to religion.” 

“ And who the devil prevents you from doing the same ? 1 
know a cardinal who will give all necessary aid, and he has 


HENRI RECEIVES NEWS FROM THE NORTH. 55 7 

more interest at Rome than you have ; do you not know him ? 
I mean the Cardinal de Guise.” 

“ Chicot !” 

“ And if the tonsure disquiets you, for it is rather a delicate 
operation, the prettiest hands and the prettiest scissors — golden 
scissors, ma foi 1 — will give you this precious symbol, which would 
raise to three the number of the crowns you have worn, and will 
justify the device, ‘ Manet ultima coelo.’ ” 

“ Pretty hands, do you say ?” 

“ Yes, do you mean to abuse the hands of Madame de Mont- 
pensier? How severe you are upon your subjects.” 

The king frowned, and passed over his eyes a hand as white 
as those spoken of, but more trembling. 

“ Well !” said Chicot, “ let us leave that, for I see that the 
conversation does not please you, and let us return to subjects 
that interest me personally.” 

The king made a gesture, half indifferent, half approving. 

“ Have you heard, Henri,” continued Chicot, “ whether those 
Joyeuses carried off any woman?” 

“ Not that I know of.” 

“ Have they burned anything ?” 

“ What?” 

“ How should I know what a great lord burns to amuse him- 
self; the house of some poor devil, perhaps.” 

“ Are you mad, Chicot ? Burn a house for amusement in 
my city of Paris !” 

“ Oh ! why not ?” 

. “Chicot!” 

“ Then they have done nothing that you know of?” 

“ Ma foi, no.” 

“ Oh ! so much the better,” said Chicot, drawing a long 
breath like a man much relieved. 

“ Do you know one thing, Chicot?” said Henri. 

“No, I do not.” 

“It is that you have become wicked.” 

“ I ?” 

“Yes, you.” 

“ My sojourn in the tomb had sweetened me, but your pre- 
sence, great king, has destroyed the effect.” 

“ You become insupportable, Chicot ; and I now attribute to 
vou ambitious projects and intrigues of which I formerly be- 
lieved you incapable. ” 


358 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN . 


“ Projects of ambition ! I ambitious ! Henriquet, my son, 
you used to be only foolish, now you are mad ; you have pro- 
gressed.” 

“And I tell you, M. Chicot, that you wish to separate 
from me all my old friends, by attributing to them intentions 
which they have not, and crimes of which they never thought ; 
in fact, you wish to monopolise me.” 

“ I monopolise you ! what for ? God forbid ! you are too 
tiresome, without counting the difficulty of pleasing you with 
your food. Oh ! no, indeed ! Explain to me whence comes 
this strange idea.” 

“ You began by listening coldly to my praises of your old 
friend, Dorn Modeste, to whom you owe much.” 

“ I owe much to Dom Modeste ! Good.” 

“ Then you tried to calumniate the Joyeuses, my true 
friends.” 

“ I do not say no.” 

“ Then you launched a shaft at the Guises.” 

“ Ah ! you love them now ; you love all the world to day, it 
seems.” 

“No, I do not love them ; but, as just now they keep them- 
selves close and quiet, and do not do me the least harm, I do 
not fear them, and I cling to all old and well known faces. All 
these Guises, with their fierce looks and great swords, have never 
done me any harm, after all, and they resemble — shall I tell you 
what ?” 

“ Do, Henri; I know how clever you are at comparisons.” 

“ They resemble those perch, that they let loose in the ponds 
to chase the great fish and prevent them growing too fat ; but 
suppose that the great fish are not afraid ?” 

« Well !” 

“ Then the teeth of the perch are not strong enough to get 
through their scales.” 

“ Oh ! Henri ! my friend, how clever you are !” 

“ While your Bearnais ” 

“ Well, have you a comparison for him also ?” 

“While your Bearnais, who mews like a cat, bites like a 
tiger.” 

“ Well, my son, I will tell you what to do ; divorce the queen 
and marry Madame de Montpensier ; was she not once in love 
with you ?” 

“ Yes, and that is the source of all her menaces, Chicot ; 


359 


HENRI RECEIVES NEWS FROM THE NORTH . 

she has a woman’s spite against me, and she provokes me now 
and then, but luckily I am a man, and can laugh at it.” 

As Henri finished these words, the usher cried at the door, 
“ A messenger from M. le Due de Guise for his majesty.” 

“ Is it a courier or a gentleman ?” asked the king. 

“ It is a captain, sire.” 

“Let him enter; he is welcome.” 


CHAPTER LXXIX. 

THE TWO COMPANIONS. 

Chicot, at this announcement, sat down, and turned his back 
to the door ; but the first words pronounced by the duke’s 
messenger made him start. He opened his eyes. The messen 
ger could see nothing but the eye of Chicot peering from be 
hind the chair, while Chicot could see him altogether. 

“ You come from Lorraine ?” asked the king of the new 
comer, who had a fine and warlike appearance. 

“ Not so, sire; I come from Soissons, where M. le Due, who 
has been a month in that city, gave me this letter to deliver to 
your majesty.” 

The messenger then opened his buff coat, which was fastened 
by silver clasps, and drew from a leather pouch lined with silk 
not one letter, but two ; for they had stuck together by the wax, 
and as the captain advanced to give the king one letter, the 
other fell on the carpet. Chicot’s eyes followed the messenger, 
and saw the colour spread over his cheeks as he stooped to pick 
up the letter he had let fall. But Henri saw nothing, h$ 
opened his own letter and read, while the messenger watched 
him closely. 

“Ah ! M. Borrom£e,” thought Chicot, “ so you are a captain, 
are you ?” 

“ Good,” said the king, after reading the duke’s letter with 
evident satisfaction. “ Go, captain, and tell M. de Guise that 
I am grateful for his offer.” 

“ Your majesty will not honour me with a written answer ?” 

“No, I shall see the duke in a month or six weeks, and can 
thank him myself.” 

The captain bowled and went out. 

“ You see, Chicot,” then said the king, “ that M. de Guise is 
free from all machinations. This brave duke has learned the 


360 THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 

Navarre business, and he fears that the Huguenots will raise up 
their heads, for he has also ascertained that the Germans are 
about to send reinforcements to Henri. Now, guess what he is 
about to do.” 

As Chicot did not reply, Henri went on. 

“ Well ! he offers me the army that he has just raised in Lor- 
raine to watch Flanders, and says that in six weeks it will be at 
my command, with its general. What do you say to that, 
Chicot ?” 

No answer. 

“ Really, my dear Chicot,” continued the king, “ you are as 
absurdly obstinate as a Spanish mule ; and if I happen to con- 
vince you of some error, you sulk ; yes, sulk.” 

Not a sound came to contradict Henri in this frank opinion 
of his friend. Now silence displeased Henri more than contra- 
diction. 

“ I believe,” said he, “ that the fellow has had the imperti- 
nence to go to sleep. Chicot !” continued he, advancing to the 
arm-chair; “ reply when your king speaks.” 

But Chicot did not reply, for he was not there ; and Henri 
found the arm-chair empty. 

He looked all round the room, but Chicot was not to be 
seen. The king gave a superstitious shudder; it sometimes 
came into his mind that Chicot was a supernatural being — 
a diabolic incarnation, of a good kind, it was true, but still 
diabolical. 

He called Nambu the usher, and questioned him, and he 
assured his majesty that he had seen Chicot go out five minutes 
before the duke’s messenger left. 

“ Decidedly,” thought Henri, “ Chicot was vexed at being in 
the wrong. How ill-natured men are, even the best of them.” 

Nambu w^s right ; Chicot had traversed the ante-chambers 
silently, but still he was not able to keep his spurs from sound- 
ing, which made several people turn, and bow when they saw 
who it was. 

The captain came out five minutes after Chicot, went down 
the steps across the court proudly and with a satisfied air; 
proud of his person, and pleased that the king had received him 
So well, and without any suspicions of M. de Guise. As he 
crossed the drawbridge, he heard behind him steps which 
seemed to be the echo of his own. He turned, thinking that 
the king had sent some message to him, and great was his 


THE TWO COMPANIONS . 


361 


stupefaction to see behind him the demure face of Robert 
Briquet. It may be remembered that the first feeling of these 
two men about one another had not been exactly sympathetical. 

Borromee opened his mouth, and paused ; and in an instant 
was joined by Chicot. 

“ Corboeuf !” said Borrome'e. 

“Ventre de biche !” cried Chicot 

“ The bourgeois !” 

“The reverend father l” 

“ With that helmet !” 

“ With that buff coat !” 

“ I am surprised to see you.” 

“ I am delighted to meet you again.” 

And they looked fiercely at each other, but Borromde, quickly 
assuming an air of amiable urbanity, said, “ Vive Dieu, you are 
cunning, M. Robert Briquet.” 

“ I, reverend father : and why do you say so ?” 

“ When you were at the convent of the Jacobins, you made 
me believe you were only a simple bourgeois.” 

“ Ah !” replied Chicot, “ and what must we say of you, M. 
Borromee ?” 

“ Of me ?” 

“ Yes, of you.” 

“ And why ?” 

“ For making me believe you were only a monk. You must 
be more cunning than the pope himself ; but you took me in 
the sncre.” 

“ The snare ?” 

“ Yes, doubtless ; a brave captain like you does not change 
his cuirass for a frock without grave reasons.” 

“ With a soldier like you, I will have no secrets. It is true 
that I have certain personal interests in the convent of the 
Jacobins: but you?” 

“And I, also.” 

“ Let us chat about it.” 

“Iam quite ready.” 

“ Do you like wine ?” 

“ Yes, when it is good.” 

“ Well ! I know a little inn, which I think has no rival in 
Paris.” 

“ And I know one also ; what is yours called ?” 

“ The ‘ Come d’Abonaance.’ ” 


362 


TEE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


“ Ah !” 

“ Well, what is it ?” 

“Nothing.” 

“ Do you know anything against this house ?” 

“Not at all.” 

“ You know it ?” 

“No ; and that astonishes me.” 

“ Shall we go there, compere ?” 

“ Oh ! yes, at once.” 

“ Come, then.” 

“ Where is it ?” 

“Near the Porte Bourdelle. The host appreciates well the 
difference between palates like yours and mine, and those of 
every thirsty passer-by.” 

“ Can we talk there ?” 

“ Perfectly at our ease.” 

“ Oh ! I see you are well known there.” 

“ Ma foi, no ; this time you are wrong. M. Bonhomet sells 
me wine when I want it, and I pay when I can ; that is all.” 

“ Bonhomet ! that is a name that promises well.” 

“ And keeps its promise. Come, compere.” 

“ Oh ! oh !” said Chicot to himself ; “ now I must choose 
among my best grimaces ; for if Bonhomet recognises me at 
once, it is all over.” 


CHAPTER LXXX. 

THE CORNE D’ABONDANCE. 

The way along which Borromee led Chicot, never suspecting 
that he knew it as well as himself, recalled to our Gascon the 
happy days of his youth. How many times had he in those 
days, under the rays of the winter sun, or in the cool shade in 
summer, sought out this house, towards which a stranger was 
now conducting him. Then a few pieces of gold, or even of 
silver, jingling in his purse, made him happier than a king ; and 
he gave himself up to the delightful pleasures of laziness, having 
no wife nor children starving, or scolding and suspicious, at 
home. Then Chicot used to sit down carelessly on the wooden 
bench, waiting for Gorenflot, who, however, was always exact 
to the time fixed for dinner ; and then he used to study, with 
intelligent curiosity, Gorenflot in all his different shades of 


THE CORiVE D'ABOXDAXCE. 


363 


drunkenness. Soon the great street of St Jacques appeared 
to his eyes, the cloister of St. Benoit, and nearly in front of 
that the hotel of the Corne d’Abondance, rather dirty, and rather 
dilapidated, but still shaded by its planes and chestnuts, and 
embellished inside by its pots of shining copper, and brilliant 
saucepans, looking like imitations of gold and silver, and bring- 
ing real gold and silver into the pockets of the innkeeper. 
Chicot bent his back until he seemed to lose five or six inches 
of his height, and making a most hideous grimace, prepared 
to meet his old friend Bonhomet However, as Borromee 
walked first, it was to him that Bonhomet spoke, and he 
scarcely looked at Chicot, who stood behind. Time had left 
its traces on the face of Bonhomet, as well as on his house. 
Besides the wrinkles which seem to correspond on the human 
face to the cracks made by time on the front of buildings, M. 
Bonhomet had assumed airs of great importance since Chicot 
had seen him last. These, however, he never showed much to 
men of a warlike appearance, for whom he had always a great 
respect. 

It seemed to Chicot that nothing was changed excepting the 
tint of the ceiling, which from gray had turned to black. 

‘‘ Come friend,” said Borromee, “ I know a little nook where 
two men may talk at their ease while they drink. Is it empty ?” 
continued he, turning to Bonhomet. 

Bonhomet answered that it w r as, and Borromee then led 
Chicot to the little room already so well known to all readers of 
“ Chicot the Jester.” 

“ Now,” said Borromee, “ wait here for me while I avail my- 
self of a privilege granted to the habitues of this house.” 

“ What is that ?” 

u To go to the cellar and fetch one’s own wine.” 

“ Ah ! a jolly privilege. Go, then.” 

Borromee went out. Chicot watched him disappear, and 
then went to the wall and raised a picture, representing Credit 
killed by bad paymasters, behind which was a hole, through 
which you could see into the public room. Chicot knew this 
hole well, for it was his own making. 

On looking through, he perceived Borromee, after placing his 
finger on his lips, as a sign of caution, say something to Bon- 
homet, who seemed to acquiesce by a nod of the head, after 
which Borromee took a light, which was always kept burning in 
readiness, and descended to the cellar. Then Chicot knocked 


THE FORTY- FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


364 

on the wall in a peculiar manner. On hearing this knock, which 
seemed to recall to him some souvenir deeply rooted in his 
heart, Bonhomet started, and looked round him. Chicot 
knocked again impatiently, like a man angry at his first call not 
being answered. Bonhomet ran to the little room, and found 
Chicot standing there upright. At this sight Bonhomet, who, 
like the rest of the world, had believed Chicot dead, uttered a 
cry, for he believed he saw a ghost. 

Since when,” said Chicot, “ has a person like me been 
obliged to call twice ?” 

“ Oh ! dear M. Chicot, is it you or your shade ?” cried Bon- 
homet. 

“ Whichever it be, since you recognise me, I hope you will 
obey me.” 

“Oh! certainly, dear M. Chicot.” 

“ Then whatever noise you hear in this room, and whatever 
takes place here, do not come until I call you.” 

“ Your directions will be the easier to obey, since they are 
exactly the same as your companion has just given to me.” 

“Yes, but if he calls, do not come — wait until I call” 

“ I will, M. Chicot.” 

“ Good ! now send away every one else from your inn, and 
in ten minutes let us be as free and as solitary here as if we 
came to fast on Good Friday.” 

“ In ten minutes, M. Chicot, there shall not be a soul in the 
hotel excepting your humble servant.” 

“ Go, Bonhomet ; you are not changed, I see.” 

“ Oh ! mon Dieu ! mon Dieu !” said Bonhomet, as he retired, 
“ what is about to take place in my poor house?” 

As he went, he met Borromee returning from the cellar with 
his bottles. 

We do not know how Bonhomet managed, but when the 
ten minutes had expired, the last customer was crossing the 
threshold of the door, muttering : 

“ Oh ! oh ! the weather is stormy here to-day ; we must avoid 
the storm.” 


WHAT HAPPENED IN THE UTILE ROOM. 365 


CHAPTER LXXXI. 

WHAT HAPPENED IN THE LITTLE ROOM. 

When the captain re-entered the room with a basket in his 
hand containing a dozen bottles, he was received by Chicot 
with smiles. Borrome'e was in haste to uncork his bottles, 
but his haste was nothing to Chicot’s ; thus the preparations 
did not take long, and the two companions began to drink. 
At first, as though their occupation was too important to be 
interrupted, they drank in silence. Chicot uttered only these 
words : 

“ Par ma foi ! this is good Burgundy.” 

They drank two bottles in this way ; at the third, Chicot 
raised his eyes to heaven, and said : 

“ Really, we are drinking as though we wished to intoxicate 
ourselves.” 

“ It is so good,” replied Borromee. 

“ Ah ! it pleases you. Go on, friend , I have a strong head.” 

And each of them swallowed another bottle. The wine pro- 
duced on each of them an opposite effect — it unloosened 
Chicot’s tongue, and tied that of Borromee. 

“ Ah !” murmured Chicot, you are silent ; then you doubt 
yourself.” 

“ Ah !” said Borromee to himself, “ you chatter ; then you 
are getting tipsy.” Then he asked Chicot, “ How many bottles 
does it take you ?” 

“ For what ?” 

“ To get lively.” 

“ About four.” 

“ And to get tipsy ?” 

“ About six.” 

“ And dead drunk ?” 

“ Double.” 

“ Boaster !” thought Borromee, “ he stammers already, and 
has only drunk four. Come, then, we can go on,” said he, and 
he drew out a fifth for Chicot and one for himself. 

But Chicot remarked that of the five bottles ranged beside 
Borromee some were half full, and others two thirds ; none wen 
empty. This confirmed him in his suspicions that the captain 
had bad intentions with regard to him. He rose as if to fetch 
his fifth bottle, and staggered as he did so. 


366 


THE FORTY- FIVE GUARDS MEAT. 


i*. 


“ Oh !” said he, “ did you feel ?” 

“ What ?” 

“ The earth trembling.” 

“ Bah !” 

“ Yes, ventre de biche ! Luckily the hotel of the Corne 
d’Abondance is solid, although it is built on a pivot.” 

“ What ! built on a pivot ?” 

“ Doubtless, since it turns.” 

“ True,” said Borromee, “ I felt the effects, but did not guess 
the cause.” 

“ Because you are not a Latin scholar, and have not read the 
* De Natura Rerum. ’ If you had, you would know that there is 
no effect without a cause.” 

“ Well, my dear captain, for you are a captain like me, are you 
not ?” 

“Yes, from the points oi my toes to the roots of my hair.” 

“ Well, then, my dear captain, tell me, since there is no 
effect without a cause, as you say, what was the cause of your 
disguise ?” 

“What disguise ?” 

“That which you wore when you came to visit Dom 
Modeste.” 

“ How was I disguised ?” 

“ As a bourgeois.” 

“Ah! true.” 

“ Will you tell me ?” 

“ Willingly, if you will tell me why you were disguised as a 
monk. Confidence for confidence.” 

“ Agreed,” said Borromee. 

“ You wish to know, then, why I was disguised,” said Chicot, 
with an utterance which seemed to grow thicker and thicker. 

“ Yes, it puzzles me.” 

“ And then you will tell me ?” 

“ Yes, that was agreed.” 

“ Ah ! true ; I forgot. Well, the thing is very simple ; 1 was 
a spy for the king.” 

“ A spy ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Is that, then, your profession ?” 

“No, I am an amateur.” 

“ What were you spying there ?” 

“ Every one. Dom Modeste himself, then Brother Borromee, 
little Jacques, and the whole convent.” 


WHAT HATPENED IN THE LITTLE ROOM . 367 

“ And what did you discover, my friend ?” 

“First, that Dom Modeste is a great fool.” 

“ It does not need to be very clever to find that out.” 

“ Pardon me ; his majesty Henri the Third, who is no fool, 
regards him as one of the lights of the Church, and is about to 
make a bishop of him.” 

“ So be it ; I have nothing to say against that promotion ; on 
the contrary, it will give me a good laugh. But what else did 
you discover ?” 

“ I discovered that Brother Borromee was not a monk but a 
captain.” 

“ Ah ! you discovered that ?” 

“At once.” 

“ Anything else ?” 

“ I discovered that Jacques was practising with the foils before 
he*began with the sword.” 

“ Ah ! you discovered that also. Anything else.” 

“ Give me more to drink, or I shall remember nothing.” 

“ Remember that you are beginning your sixth bottle,” said 
Borromee, laughing. 

“ Did we not come here to drink ?” 

“ Certainly we did.” 

“ Let us drink then.” 

“ Well,” said Borromee, “ now do you remember ?” 

“ What?” 

“ What else you saw in the convent.” 

“ Well, I saw that the monks were really soldiers, and instead 
of obeying Dom Modeste, obeyed you.” 

“ Ah, truly ; but doubtless that was not all ?” 

“ No ; but more to drink, or my memory will fail me.” 

And as his bottle was empty, he held out his glass for more. 

“ Well, now do you remember ?” 

“Oh, yes, I should think so.” 

“ Well, what else ?” 

“ I saw that there was a plot.” 

“ A plot !” cried Borromde. turning pale; 

“Yes, a plot.” 

“ Against whom ?” 

“ Against the king.” 

“ Of what nature ?” 

“ To try and carry him off/ 

“When ?” 


368 


THE FORTY- FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


“ When he was returning from Vincennes.” 

“ Sacre !” 

1 What did you say ?” 

“Nothing. And you found out that ?” 

« Yes.” 

“ And warned the king ?” 

“ Parbleu ! that was what I came for.” 

“ Then you were the cause of the attempt failing ?” 

“Yes, I.” 

“ Hang him !” murmured Borromee. 

“ What did you say ?” 

“ I said that you have good eyes, friend.” 

“ Bah ! I have seen more than that ; pass me one of your 
bottles, and I will tell you what Thave seen.” 

Borromee hastened to comply with Chicot's desire. 

“ Let me hear,” said he. 

“Firstly, I have seen M. de Mayenne wounded.” 

“ Bah !” 

“No wonder, he was on my route. And then I have seen 
the taking of Cahors.” 

“ How ? the taking of Cahors ?” 

“ Certainly. Ah ! captain, it was a grand thing to see, and 
a brave man like you would have been delighted.” 

“ I do not doubt it. You were, then, near the King of 
Navarre ?” 

“ Side by side, my friend, as we are now.” 

“ And you left him ?” 

“ To announce this news to the King of France.” 

“ Then you have been at the Louvre ?” 

“Yes, just before you.” 

“ Then, as we have not quitted each other since, I need not 
ask you what you have done.” 

“ On the contrary, ask ; for that is the most curious of all.” 
“Tell me, then.” 

“ Tell ! oh, it is very easy to say tell.” 

“ Try.” 

“ One more glass of wine, then, to loosen my tongue. Quite 
full ; that will do. Well, I saw, comrade, that when you gave 
the king the Due de Guise’s letter, you let another fall.” 

“ Another !” cried Borromee, starting up. 

“ Yes, it is there.” 

And having tried two or three times, with an unsteady hand, 


WHA T HAPPENED IN THE LITTLE ROOM. 369 

he put his finger on the buff doublet of Borromee, just where 
the letter was. Borromee started, as though Chicot’s finger had 
been a hot iron, and had touched his skin instead of his doublet 

‘‘Oh, oh,” said he, “ there is but one thing wanting.” 

“ What is that ?” 

“ That you should know to whom the letter is addressed.” 

“ Oh, I know quite well : it is addressed to the Duchesse de 
Montpensier.” 

“ Good heavens ! I hope you have not told that to the king.” 

‘•No ; but I will tell him.” 

“ When ?” 

“When I have had a nap.” And he let his arms fall on the 
table, and his head on them. 

“ Then as soon as you can walk you will go to the Louvre ?” 

“ I will.” 

“ You will denounce me.” 

“ I will denounce you.” 

“ Is it not a joke ?” 

“ What ?” 

“That you will tell the king after your nap.” 

“ Not at all. You see, my dear friend,” said Chicot, half 
raising his head, “ you are a conspirator, and I am a spy ; you 
have a plot, and I denounce you ; we each follow our business.” 

And Chicot laid his head down again, so that his face was 
completely hidden by his hands, while the back of his head was 
protected by his helmet. 

“ Ah !” cried Borromee, “ you will denounce me when you 
wake !” and, rising, he made a furious blow with his dagger on 
the back of his companion, thinking to pierce him through and 
nail him to the table. But he had not reckoned on the shirt of 
mail which Chicot had carried away from the priory. The 
dagger broke upon it like glass, and for the second time Chicot 
owed his life to it. 

Before Borromee had time to recover from his astonishment, 
Chicot’s right fist struck him a heavy blow in the face, and sent 
him bleeding and stunned against the wall. 

In a minute, however, he was up, and sword in hand ; but 
this minute had sufficed for Chicot to draw his sword also, and 
prepare himself. He seemed to shake off, as if by enchant- 
ment, all the fumes of the wine, and stood with a steady hand 
to receive his adversary. The table, like a field of battle, 
covered with empty bottles, lay between them, but the blood, 

24 


370 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


flowing down his face infuriated Borromee, who lunged at his 
adversary as fiercely as the intervening table permitted. 

“ Dolt !” cried Chicot, “you see that it is decidedly you who 
are drunk, for you cannot reach me across the table, while my 
arm is six inches longer than yours, and my sword as much 
longer than your sword ; and here is the proof.” 

As he spoke, he stretched out his arm and wounded Bor- 
romee in the forehead. Borromee uttered a cry, still more of 
rage than of pain, and as he was brave enough, attacked with 
double fury. 

Chicot, however, still on the other side of the table, took a 
chair and sat down, saying, “ Mon Dieu ! how stupid these 
soldiers are ; they pretend to know how to manage their swords, 
and any bourgeois, if he liked, could kill them like flies. Ah ! 
now you want to put out my eye. And now you mount on the 
table , but ventre de biche ! take care, donkey.” And he 
pricked him with his sword in the stomach, as he had already 
done in the forehead. 

Bcrromee roared with anger, and leaped from the table to 
the floor. 

“ That is as it should be,” said Chicot ; “ now we are on the 
same level, and we can talk while we are fencing. Ah ! cap- 
tain, captain, and so we sometimes try our hand a little at 
assassination in our spare moments, do we ?” 

“ I do for my cause what you do for yours,” said Borromee, 
now brought back to the seriousness of his position, and terri- 
fied, in spite of himself, at the smothered fire which seemed 
gleaming in Chicot’s eyes. 

“ So much for talking,” said Chicot ; " and yet, my friend, 
it is with no little pleasure I find that I am a better hand than 
you are. Ah ! that was not bad.” 

Borromee had just made a lunge at Chicot, which had slightly 
touched his breast. 

“ Not bad, but I know the thrust — it is the very same you 
showed little Jacques. I was just saying, then, that I have the 
advantage of you, for I did not begin this quarrel, however 
anxiously disposed I might have been to do so. More than 
that, even, I have allowed you to carry out your project by giving 
you every latitude you required, and yet at this very moment 
even, I have only been acting on the defensive, and this, be- 
cause I have something to propose to you.” 

“Nothing,” cried Borromee, exasperated at Chicot’s imper- 
turbability, “ nothing.” 


WHAT HAPPENED IN THE LITTLE ROOM. 


37i 


And he gave a thrust which would have run the Gascon com- 
pletely through the body, if the latter had not, with his long 
legs, sprung back a step, which placed him out of his adver- 
sary’s reach. 

“ I am going to tell you what this arrangement is, all the 
same, so that I shall have nothing left to reproach myself 
for.” 

“ Hold your tongue,” said Borrome'e ; “ hold your tongue ; 
it will be useless.” 

“ Listen,” said Chicot ; “ it is to satisfy my own conscience. 

I have no wish to shed your blood, you understand, and I don’t 
want to kill you until I am driven to extremes.” 

“ Kill me, kill me, I say, if you can !” exclaimed Borromee, 
exasperated. 

“ No, no; I have already once in my life killed another such 
swordsman as you are ; I will even say a better swordsman than 
you. Pardieu ! you know him ; he too was one of De Guise’s 
retainers — a lawyer, too.” 

“ Ah ! Nicholas David !” said Borromee, terrified at the inci- 
dent, and again placing himself on the defensive. 

“ Exactly so.” 

“ It was you who killed him ?” 

“ Oh ! yes, with a pretty little thrust which I will presently 
show you, if you decline the arrangement I propose.” 

“ Well, let me hear what the arrangement is.” 

“ You will pass from the Due de Guise’s service to that of 
the king, without, however, quitting that of the Due.” 

“In other words, that I should become a spy like your- 
self?” 

“ No, for there will be a difference ; I am not paid, but you 
will be. You will begin by showing me the Due de Guise’s 
letter to Madame la Duchesse de Montpensier ; you will let me 
take a copy of it, and I will leave you quiet until another occa' 
si on. Well, am I not considerate ?” 

“ Here,” said Borromee, “ is my answer.” 

Borromee’s reply was, “ un coupe sur les armes,” so rapidly 
dealt that the point of his sword slightly touched Chicot’s 
shoulder. 

“ Well, well,” said Chicot, “ I see I must positively show you 
Nicholas David’s thrust. It is very simple and pretty.” 

And Chicot, who had up to that moment been acting on 
the defensive, made one step forward, and attacked in his turn. 

24 — 2 


372 


THE FOE TV- FIVE GUARDSMEN, \ 


“ This is the thrust,” said Chicot ; “ I make a feint in quartre- 
basse.” 

And he did so ; Borromee parried by giving way ; but, after 
this first step backwards he was obliged to stop, as he found 
that he was close to the partition. 

“ Good ! precisely so ; you parry in a circle ; that’s wrong, for 
my wrist is stronger than yours. I catch your sword in mine, 
thus. I return to the attack by a tierce haute, I fall upon you, 
so, and you are hit, or, rather, you are a dead man !” 

In fact, the thrust had followed, or rather had accompanied, 
the demonstration, and the slender rapier, penetrating Bor- 
romee’s chest, had glided like a needle completely through him, 
penetrating deeply, and with a dull, heavy sound, the wooden 
partition behind him. 

Borromee flung out his arms, letting his sword fall to the 
ground ; his eyes became fixed and injected with blood, his 
mouth opened wide, his lips were stained with a red coloured 
foam, his head fell on his shoulder with a sigh, which sounded 
like a death-rattle ; then his limbs refused their support, and 
his body as it sunk forward enlarged the aperture of the wound, 
but could not free itself from the partition, supported as it was 
by Chicot’s terrible wrist, so that the miserable wretch, like a 
gigantic insect, remained fastened to the wall, which his feet 
kicked convulsively. 

Chicot, cold and impassable as he always was in positions of 
great difficulty, especially when he had a conviction at the 
bottom of his heart that he had done everything his conscience 
could require of him — Chicot, we say, took his hand from his 
sword, which remained in a horizontal position, unfastened the 
captain’s belt, searched his doublet, took the letter, and read 
the address : 

“ Duchesse de Montpensier.” 

All this time the blood was welling copiously from the wound, 
and the agony of death was depicted on the features of the 
wounded man. 

“ I am dying, I am dying !” he murmured. “ O Heaven ! 
have pity on me.” 

This last appeal to the divine mercy, made by a man who 
had most probably rarely thought of it until this moment of 
his direst need, touched Chicot’s feeling. 

“ Let us be charitable,” he said ; “ and since this man must 
die, let him at least die as quietly as possible.” 


WHAT HAPPENED IN THE LITTLE ROOM. 373 

He then advanced toward^ the partition, and by an effort 
withdrew his sword from the wall, and supporting Borromee’s 
body, he prevented it from falling heavily to the ground. 

This last precaution, however, was useless ; the approach of 
death had been rapid and certain, and had already paralysed 
the dying mans limbs. His legs gave way beneath him, he fell 
into Chicot’s arms, and then rolled heavily on the floor. 

The shock of his fall made a stream of blood flow from his 
wound, with which the last remains of life ebbed away. 

Chicot then went and opened the door of communication, 
and called Bonhomet. 

He had no occasion to call twice, for the innkeeper had been 
listening at the door, and had successively heard the noise of 
tables and stools, the clashing of swords, and the fall of a heavy 
body ; besides, the worthy M. Bonhomet had particularly, after 
the confidence which had been reposed in him, too extensive 
an experience of the character of gentlemen of the sword in 
general, and of that of Chicot in particular, not to have guessed, 
step by step, what had taken place. 

The only thing of which he was ignorant was, which of the 
two adversaries had fallen. 

It must, however, be said in praise of Maitre Bonhomet that 
his face assumed an expression of real satisfaction when he 
heard Chicot’s voice, and when he saw that it was the Gascon 
who, safe and sound, opened the door. 

Chicot, whom nothing escaped, remarked the expression of 
his countenance, and was inwardly pleased at it. 

Bonhomet, tremblingly, entered the apartment. 

“ Good Heavens !” he exclaimed, as he saw the captain’s 
body bathed in blood. 

“ Yes, my poor Bonhomet,” 1 lid Chicot ; “ this is what 
we have come to ; our dear captain here is very ill, as you 
see.” 

“ Oh ! my good Monsieur Chicot, my good Monsieur Chi- 
cot !” exclaimed Bonhomet, ready to faint. 

“ Well, what ?” inquired Chicot. 

“ It is very unkind of you to have chosen my inn for this 
execution ; such a handsome captain, too !” 

1 Would you sooner have seen Chicot lying there, and Bor- 
romee alive ?” 

“No, oh no !” cried the host, from the very bottom of his 
heart. 


374 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


“ Well, that would have happened, however, had it not been 
for a miracle of Providence.” 

“ Really ?” 

“ Upon the word of Chicot, just look at my back, for it pains 
me a good deal, my dear friend.” 

And he stooped down before the innkeeper, so that both his 
shoulders might be on a level with the host’s eye. 

Between the two shoulders the doublet was pierced through, 
and a spot of blood as large and round as a silver crown piece 
reddened the edges of the hole. 

“Blood !” cried Bonhomet, “blood 1 Ah, you are wounded !” 

“Wait, wait.” 

And Chicot unfastened his doublet and his shirt. 

“ Now look,” he said. 

“ Oh ! you wore a cuirass ! What a fortunate thing, dear 
Monsieur Chic at ; and you were saying that the ruffian wished 
to assassinate you.” 

“ Diable ! it hardly seems likely I should have taken any 
pleasure in giving myself a dagger thrust between my own 
shoulders. Now, what do you see?” 

“ A link broken.” 

“ That dear captain was in good earnest then ; is there much 
blood ?” 

“ Yes, a good deal under the links.” 

“ I must take off the cuirass, then,” said Chicot. 

Chicot took off his cuirass, and bared the upper part of his 
body, which seemed to be composed of nothing else but bones, 
of muscles spread over the bones, and of skin merely covering 
the muscles. 

“ Ah ! Monsieur Chicot,” exclaimed Bonhomet, “ you have 
a wound as large as a plate.” 

“Yes, I suppose the blood has spread ; there is what doctors 
call ecchymosis ; give me some clean linen, pour into a glass 
equal parts of good olive oil and wine dregs, and wash that stain 
for me.” 

“ But dear M. Chicot, what am I do with this body ?” 

“That is not your affair.” 

“ What ! not my affair ?” 

“ No. Give me some ink, a pen, and a sheet of paper.” 

“ Immediately, dear Monsieur Chicot,” said Bonhomet, as he 
darted out of the room. 

Meanwhile Chicot, who probably had no time to lose, heated 


WHa T HAPPENED IX T1IE LITTLE ROOM. 


n 5 


at the lamp the point of a small dagger, and cut in the middle 
of the wax the seal of the letter. This being done, and as there 
was nothing else to retain the despatch, Chicot drew it from its 
envelope, and read it with the liveliest marks of satisfaction. 

Just as he had finished reading it, Maitre Bonhomet returned 
with the oil, the wine, the paper, and the pen. 

Chicot arranged the pen, ink, and paper before him, sat him- 
self down at the table, and turned his back with stoical indif- 
ference towards Bonhomet for him to operate upon. The latter 
understood the pantomine, and began to rub it. 

However, as if, instead of irritating a painful wound, some 
one had been tickling him in the most delightful manner, 
Chicot, during the operation, copied the letter from the Due 
de Guise to his sister, and made his comments thereon at 
every word. 

“ Dear Sister, 

“ The expedition from Anvers has succeeded for every- 
body, but has failed as far as we are concerned. You will be 
told that the Due d’Anjou is dead ; do not believe it — he is 
alive. 

“ He lives, you understand, and that is the whole question. 

“ There is a complete dynasty in those words ; those two 
words separate the house of Lorraine from the throne of France 
better than the deepest abyss could do. 

“ Do not, however, make yourself too uneasy about that I have 
discovered that two persons, whom I thought were dead, are still 
living, and there is a great chance of death for the prince while 
those two persons are alive. 

“ Think then only of Paris ; it will be time enough for the 
League to act six weeks hence. Let our Leaguers know that 
the moment is approaching, and let them hold themselves in 
readiness. 

“ The army is on foot ; we number twelve thousand sure 
men, all w^ell equipped ; I shall enter France with it, under the 
pretext of engaging the German Huguenots, who are going to 
assist Henri de Navarre. I shall defeat the Huguenots, and 
having entered France as a friend, I shall act as a master.” 

“ Oh, oh 1” cried Chicot. 

“ Did I hurt you, dear Monsieur Chicot ?” said Bonhomet, 
discontinuing his frictions. 

“ Yes, my good fellow.” 


376 


7 HE FORTY FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


‘‘I will rub more softly; don't be afraid.” 

Chicot continued . 

“PS. — I entirely approve of your plan with regard to the 
Forty five; only allow me to say, dear sister, that you will be 
conferring a greater honour on those fellows than they deserve.” 

“ Ah ! diable !” murmured Chicot, “ this is getting obscure. ” 

And he read it again. 

“ I entirely approve of your plan with regard to the Forty- 
five.” 

“ What plan ?” Chicot asked himself. 

“ Only allow me to say, dear sister, that you will be con- 
ferring a greater honour on those fellows than they deserve.” 

“ YVhat honour ?” 

Chicot resumed : — 

“ Than they deserve. 

“ Your affectionate brother, 

“ H. de Lorraine.” 

“ At all events,” said Chicot, “ everything is clear, except 
the postscript. Very good, we will look after the postscript, 
then.” 

“Dear Monsieur Chicot,” Bonhomet ventured to observe, 
seeing that Chicot had finished writing, if not thinking, “ Dear 
Monsieur Chicot, you have not told me what I am to do with 
this corpse.” 

“That is a very simple affair.” 

“ For you, who are full of imagination, it may be, but for 
me ?” 

“ Well ! suppose, for instance, that that unfortunate captain 
had been quarrelling with the Swiss Guards or the Reiters, and 
he had been brought to your house wounded, would you have 
refused to receive him ?” 

“No, certainly, unless indeed you had forbidden me, dear 
M. Chicot.” 

“ Suppose that, having been placed in that corner, he had, 
notwithstanding the care and attention you had bestowed upon 
him, departed this life while in your charge, it would have been 
a great misfortune, and nothing more, I suppose ?” 

“ Certainly.” 

“ And, instead of incurring any blame, you would deserve 
to be commended for your humanity. Suppose, again, that 


WHAT HAPPENED IN THE LITTLE ROOM. 


377 


while he was dying this poor captain had mentioned the name, 
which you know very well, of the prior of Les Jacobins Saint 
Antoine ?” 

“ Of Dom Modeste Gorenflot ?” exclaimed Bonhomet, in 
astonishment. 

“Yes, of Dom Modeste Gorenflot. Very good ! You will 
go and inform Dom Modeste of it ; Dom Modeste will hasten 
here with all speed, and, as the dead man’s purse is found in t ne 
of his pockets — you understand it is important that the purse 
should be found ; I mention this merely by way of advice — 
and as the dead man’s purse is found in one of his pockets, 
and this letter in the other, no suspicion whatever can be enter- 
tained.” 

“ I understand, dear Monsieur Chicot.” 

“ In addition to which, you will receive a reward, instead of 
being punished.” 

You are a great man, dear Monsieur Chicot ; I will run at 
once to the Priory of St. Antoine.” 

if Wait a minute ! did I not say there was the purse and the 
letter ?” 

“ Oh ! yes, and you have the letter in your hand.” 

“ Precisely.” 

“ I must not say that it has been read and copied ?” 

“ Pardieu ! it is precisely on account of this letter reaching 
its destination intact that you will receive a recompense.” 

“ The letter contains a secret, then ?” 

“ In such times as the present there are secrets in everything, 
my dear Bonhomet.” 

And Chicot, with this sententious reply, again fastened the 
silk under the wax of the seal by making use of the same means 
as he had done before ; he then fastened the wax so artistically 
that the most experienced eye would not have been able to have 
detected the slightest crack. 

He then replaced the letter in the pocket of the dead man, 
had the linen, which had been steeped in the oil and wine, 
applied to his wound by way of a cataplasm, put on again the 
safety coat of mail next to his skin, his shirt over his coat of 
mail, picked up his sword, wiped it, thrust it into the scabbard, 
and withdrew. 

He returned again, however, saying : 

“ If, after all, the story which I have invented does not seem 
satisfactory to you, you can accuse the captain of having thrust 
his own sword through his body.” 


378 


THE FORTY FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


1 A suicide ?” 

“ Well, that don’t compromise any one, you understand ’’ 

“ But they won’t bury this ill-starred fellow in holy ground ” 

“ Pooh,” said Chicot, “ will that be giving him much plea- 
sure ?’’ 

“ Why, yes, I should think so.” 

“ In that case, do as you like, my dear Bonhomet; adieu.” 

Then, returning a second time, he said : 

“ By-the-bye, I pay, since he is no more.” 

And Chicot threw three golden crowns on the table, and 
then, placing his forefinger on his lips, in token of silence, 
he departed. 


CHAPTER LXXXII. 

THE HUSBAND AND THE LOVER. 

It was with no inconsiderable emotion that Chicot again recog- 
nised La Rue des Augustins, so quiet and deserted, the angle 
formed by the block of houses which preceded his own, and 
lastly, his own derr house itself, with its triangular roof, its 
worm-eaten balcony, and its gutters ornamented with water- 
spouts. 

He had been so terribly afraid that he should find nothing 
but an empty space in the place of the house, and had so 
strongly suspected that he should see the street blackened by 
the smoke of a conflagration, that the street and the house 
appeared to him miracles of neatness, loveliness, and splendour. 

Chicot had concealed the key of his beloved house in the 
hollow of a stone which served as the base of one of the 
columns by which his balcony was supported. At the period 
we are now writing about, any kind of key belonging to a chest 
or piece of furniture equalled in weight and size the very largest 
keys of our houses of the present day ; the door keys, therefore, 
following the natural proportions, were equal in size to the keys 
of our modern cities. 

Chicot had consequently calculated the difficulty which his 
pocket would have in accommodating the happy key, and he 
accordingly determined to hide it in the spot we have indicated. 

Chicot, therefore, it must be confessed, felt a slight shudder 
creeping over him as he plunged his fingers in the hollow of the 
stone ; this shudder was succeeded by a feeling of the most un- 
mixed delight when the cold of the iron met his hand, for the 
key was really and truly in the spot where he had left it. 


THE HUSBAND AND THE LOVER. 


379 


It was precisely the same with regard to the furniture in the 
first room he came to ; the same, too, with the small board 
which he had nailed to the joist ; and lastly, the same with 
the thousand crowns, which were still slumbering in their oaken 
hiding-place. 

Chicot was not a miser ; quite the contrary, indeed ; he had 
very frequently thrown gold about broadcast, thereby allowing 
the ideal to triumph over the material, which is the philosophy 
of every man who is of any value ; but no sooner had the mind 
momentarily ceased to exercise its influence over matter — in 
other words, whenever money was no longer needed, nor sacri- 
fice requisite — whenever, in a word, the senses temporarily 
regained their influence over Chicot’s mind, and whenever his 
mind allowed the body to live and to take enjoyment, gold, that 
principal, that unceasing, that eternal source of animal delights, 
reassumed its value in our philosopher’s eyes, and no one knew 
better than he did into how many delicious particles that in- 
estimable totality which people call a crown is subdivided. 

“ Ventre de biche !” murmured Chicot, sitting down in the 
middle of his room, after he had removed the flagstone, and 
with the small piece of board by his side, and his treasure under 
his eyes, “ ventre de biche ! that excellent young man is a most 
invaluable neighbour, for he has made others respect my money, 
and has himself respected it too ; in sober truth, such an action 
is wonderful in such times as the present. Mordieux ! I owe 
some thanks to that excellent young fellow, and he shall have 
them this evening.” 

Thereupon Chicot replaced the plank over the joist, the flag- 
stone over the plank, approached the window, and looked 
towards the opposite side of the street. 

The house still retained that grey and sombre aspect which 
the imagination bestows as their natural colour upon buildings 
whose character it seems to know. 

“ It cannot yet be their time for retiring to rest,” said Chicot ; 
“and besides, those fellows, 1 am sure, are not very sound 
sleepers ; so let us see.” 

He descended his staircase, crossed the road — forming, as he 
did so, his features into their most amiable and gracious expres- 
sion — and knocked at his neighbour’s door. 

He remarked the creaking of the staircase, the sound of a 
hurried footstep, and yet he waited long enough to feel warranted 
*n knocking again. 


380 


THE FORTY- FIVE 4CARDSMEN. 


At this fresh summons the door opened, and the outline of 
a man appeared in the gloom. 

“Thank you, and good evening,” said Chicot, holding out 
his hand ; “ here I am back again, and I am come to return 
you my thanks, my dear neighbour.” 

“ I beg your pardon,” inquiringly observed a voice, in a 
tone of disappointment, the accent of which greatly surprised 
Chicot. 

At the same moment the man who had opened the door drew 
back a step or two. 

“ Stay, I have made a mistake,” said Chicot, “ you were not 
my neighbour when I left, and yet I know who you are.” 

“ And I know you too,” said the young man. 

“ You are Monsieur le Vicomte Ernanton de Carmainges.” 

“And you are ‘The Shaded” 

“ Really,” said Chicot, “ I am quite bewildered ” 

“ Well, and what do you want, monsieur ?” inquired the young 
man, somewhat churlishly. 

“ Excuse me, but I am interrupting you, perhaps, my dear 
monsieur ?” 

“ No, only you will allow me to ask you what you may want.” 

“ Nothing, except that I wished to speak to the master of 
this house.” 

“ Speak, then.” 

“ What do you mean ?” 

“ I am the master of the house, that is all.” 

“ You ? since when, allow me to ask ?” 

“ Diable ! since the last three days.” 

“ Good ! the house was for sale then ?” 

“So it would seem, since I have bought it.” 

“ But the former proprietor ?” 

“No longer lives here, as you see.” 

“ Where is he ?” 

“ I don’t know.” 

“ Come, come, let us understand each other,” said Chicot. 

“ There is nothing I should like better,” replied Ernanton, 
with visible impatience, “ only let us do so without losing any 
time.” 

“ The former proprietor was a man between five-and-twenty 
and thirty years of age, but who looked as if he were forty.” 

“ No ; he was a man of about sixty-five or sixty -six years old, 
who looked his age quite.” 


THE HUSBAND A AD THE LOVER. 


381 

“ Bald ?” 

“ No, on the contrary, a perfect forest of white hair.” 

“ With an enormous scar on the left side of the head, had he 
not ?” 

“ I did not observe the scar, but I did a good number of 
furrows.” 

“ I cannot understand it at all,” said Chicot. 

„ “Well,” resumed Ernanton, after a moment’s silence, “what 
did you want with that man, my dear Monsieur l’Ombre ?” 

Chicot was on the point of acknowledging what had just hap- 
pened ; suddenly, however, the mystery of the surprise which 
Ernanton had exhibited, reminded him of a certain proverb very 
dear to all discreet people. 

“ I wished to pay him a neighbourly visit,” he said, “that is 
all.” 

In this way, Chicot did not tell a falsehood, and yet admitted 
nothing. 

“ My dear monsieur,” said Ernanton politely, but reducing 
considerably the opening of the door which he held half- 
closed, “ I regret I am unable to give you more precise in- 
formation.” 

“ Thank you, monsieur,” said Chicot, “ I must look elsewhere, 
then.” 

“ But,” continued Ernanton, as he gradually closed the door, 
“ that does not interfere with my congratulating myself upon the 
chance which has brought me again into personal communica- 
tion with you.” 

“ You would like to see me at the devil, I believe,” murmured 
Chicot, as he returned bow for bow. 

However, as, notwithstanding this mental reply, Chicot, in his 
preoccupation, forgot to withdraw, Ernanton, shutting his face 
between the door and the doorway, said to him : 

“ I wish you a very good evening, monsieur.” 

‘ One moment, Monsieur de Carmainges,” said Chicot. 

“ Monsieur, I exceedingly regret I am unable to wait,” re- 
plied Ernanton, “ but the fact is, I am expecting some one who 
will come and knock at this very door, and this person will be 
angry with me if I do not show the greatest possible discretion 
in receiving him.” 

“That is quite sufficient, monsieur, I understand,” said 
Chicot ; “lam sorry to have been so importunate, and I now 
retire. ” 


THE FORTY- FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


382 

“Adieu, dear Monsieur l’Ombre.” 

“Adieu, excellent Monsieur Ernanton.” 

And as Chicot drew back a step, he saw the door quietly shut 
in his face. 

He listened to satisfy himself if the suspicious young man 
was watching his departure, but he heard Ernanton’s footsteps 
as he ascended the staircase ; Chicot could therefore return 
to his own house without uneasiness, and shut himself up in 
it, thoroughly determined not to interfere with his new neigh- 
bour’s habits, but, in accordance with his usual custom, equally 
resolved not to lose sight of him altogether. 

In fact, Chicot was not a man to slumber on a circumstance 
which, in his opinion, seemed to be important, without having 
handled and dissected it, with the patience of a first-rate ana- 
tomist ; in spite of all he could do (and it was a privilege or 
defect of his organisation), every material impression that his 
mind received, presented itself for analysis by its most pro- 
minent features, in such a manner that poor Chicot’s brain 
suffered considerably on account of such peculiarity, called 
upon as it was for an immediate investigation of its master’s 
thought. 

Chicot, whose mind up to that moment had been occupied 
with that phrase of the Due de Guise’s letter, namely, “ I 
entirely approve of your plan with regard to the Forty-five,” 
consequently abandoned that phrase, the examination of 
which he promised himself to return to at a later period, in 
order that he might forthwith thoroughly exhaust this fresh 
subject of preoccupation, which had just taken the place of the 
older one. 

Chicot reflected, that nothing could possibly be more singular 
than the fact of Ernanton installing himself, as if he were its 
master, in that mysterious house whose inhabitants had suddenly 
disappeared. 

And the more so, since to these original inhabitants a phrase 
of the Due de Guise’s letter relative to the Due d’ Anjou might 
possibly have some reference. 

That was a chance which deserved attentive consideration, 
and Chicot was in the habit of believing in providential chances. 

He developed, even, whenever he was begged to do so, some 
very ingenious theories on the subject. 

The basis of these theories was an idea, which, in our opinion, 
was quite as good as any other ; it was as follows : 


THE HUSBAND AND THE L OVER. 383 

Chance is a kind of reserve held in bond by the Deity. 
Heaven never communicates that reserve except in momentous 
circumstances, particularly since He has observed that men are 
sagacious enough to study and foresee the chances which may 
befall them in accordance with natural causes, and regularly 
organised principles of existence. 

Moreover, Heaven likes to counteract the combinations of 
those proud members of the human race whose pride in by- 
gone times He has already punished by drowning them, and 
whose future pride He surely will punish in destroying them by 
fire. 

Heaven, therefore we say, or Chicot said, Heaven is pleased 
to counteract the combinations of those proud and haughty 
human beings by means with which they are unacquainted, and 
whose intervention they cannot foresee. 

This theory, as may be perceived, includes some very specious 
arguments, and might possibly furnish some very brilliant 
theses ; but the reader, anxious, as Chicot was, to know what 
Carmainges’ object was in that house, will feel obliged to us by 
tracing the development of them. 

Chicot, accordingly, began to think, that it was strange to see 
Ernanton in the very house where he had seen Remy. 

He considered it was strange for two reasons; the first, be- 
cause of the perfect ignorance in which the two men lived with 
respect to each other, which led to the supposition that there 
must have been an intermediary between them unknown to 
Chicot; and the second reason, because the house must have 
been sold to Ernanton, who possessed no means of purchas- 
ing it. 

“It is true,” said Chicot, as hi installed himself as comfort- 
ably as he could on his gutter, which was his usual place of 
observation ; “ it is true that the young man pretends he is ex- 
pecting a visit, and that the visit is from a lady ; in these days, 
ladies are wealthy, and allow themselves an i dulgence in fancies 
of all kinds. Ernanton is handsome, young, and graceful ; 
Ernanton has taken some one’s fancy, a rendezvous has been 
arranged, and he has been directed to purchase this house ; he 
ha*s bought the house, and she has accepted the rendezvous. 

“ Ernanton,” continued Chicot, “ lives at Court ; it must be 
some lady belonging to the Court, then, with whom he has this 
affair. Poor fellow, will he love her ? Heaven preserve him 
from such a thing ! he is going to fall headlong io*o that gulf of 


384 THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 

perdition. Very good! ought I not to read him a moral lecture 
thereupon ? 

“ A moral lecture, which would be both useless and absurd, 
doubly so the former, and tenfold the latter. 

“ Useless, because he won’t understand it, and, even if he did 
understand it, would refuse to listen to it. 

“ Absurd, because I should be doing far better to go to bed, 
and to think a little about that poor Borromee. 

“On this latter subject,” continued Chicot, who had suddenly 
become thoughtful, “ I perceive one thing ; namely, that re- 
morse does not exist, and is only a relative feeling ; the fact is, 

I do not feel any remorse at all for having killed Borromee, 
since the manner in which Monsieur de Carmainges’ affair oc- 
cupies my mind makes me forget that I have killed the man ; 
and if he, on his side, had nailed me to the table as I nailed 
him to the wainscot, he would certainly have had no more re- 
morse than I have about it myself, at the present moment.” 

Chicot had reached so far in his reasonings, his inductions, 
and his philosophy, which had consumed a good hour-and- 
a half altogether, when he was drawn from his train of thought 
by the arrival of a litter proceeding from the direction of the 
inn of the “ Brave Chevalier.” 

This litter stopped at the threshold of the mysterious house. 

A veiled lady alighted from it, and disappeared within the 
door which Ernanton held half open. 

“Poor fellow!” murmured Chicot, “ I was not mistaken; 
and it was indeed a lady he was waiting for, and so now I shall 
go to bed.” 

Whereupon Chicot rose, but remained motionless, although 
standing up. 

“ I am mistaken,” he said, “ I shall not be able to go to 
sleep ; but I maintain what I was saying, that if I don’t sleep 
it will not be remorse which will prevent me, it will be curiosity ; 
and that is so true what I say in that respect, that if I remain 
here in my observatory, my mind will only be occupied about one 
thing, and that is to learn which of our noble ladies honours 
the handsome Ernanton with her affection. 

“ Far better, then, to remain where I am ; since, if I went 
to bed, I should certainly get up again to return here.” 

And thereupon Chicot resumed his seat. 

An hour had nearly passed away without our being able to 
state whether Chicot was engaged in thinking of the unknown 


THE HUSBAND AND THE LOVED. 


385 


lady or Borromee, or whether he was occupied by curiosity or 
tormented by feelings of remorse, when he fancied he heard the 
gallop of a horse at the end of the street. 

Such was indeed the case, for soon after a cavalier, wrapped 
in his cloak, made his appearance. 

The cavalier drew up in the middle of the street, and seemed 
to be looking about him to see where he was. 

The cavalier then perceived the group which was formed by 
the litter and its bearers. 

He drove his horse against them. He was armed, for the 
rattling of his sword against his spurs could be distinctly heard. 

The bearers of the litter seemed desirous of barring his 
passage, but he addressed a few words to them in a low tone of 
voice, and not only did they withdraw with every mark of 
respect, but one of them, as he sprung to the ground from his 
horse, even received the bridle from his hand. 

The unknown advanced towards the door, and knocked 
loudly. 

“ Well/' said Chicot, “ I was right in remaining, after all ; my 
presentiments, which told me that something was going to take 
place, have not deceived me. Here is the husband, poor Er- 
nanton ; we shall presently be witness of something serious. 

“ If, however, it be the husband, he is very kind to announce 
his return in so riotous a manner.” 

Notwithstanding the magisterial manner in which the un- 
known thundered at the door, some hesitation seemed to be 
shown in opening it. 

“ Open !” cried he who was knocking. 

“ Open ! open !” repeated the bearers. 

“ There is no doubt it is the husband,” resumed Chicot ; “ he 
has threatened the men that he will have them whipped or 
hanged, and they have declared themselves on his side. 

“ Poor Ernanton, he will be flayed alive. 

“ Oh ! oh ! I shall not suffer such a thing, however,” added 
Chicot. 

“For in fact,” he resumed, “he assisted me; and consequently, 
when an opportunity presents itself, I ought to help him. And 
it seems to me that the opportunity has now arrived, or it never 
will do so.” 

Chicot was resolute and generous, and curious into the bar- 
gain ; he unfastened his long sword, placed it under his arm, 
and hurriedly ran own the staircase. 


386 THE FORTY- FIVE GUARDSMEN. 

He coukl open his door noiselessly, which is an indispens- 
able piece of knowledge for any one who may wish to listen 
with advantage. 

Chicot glided under the balcony, then behind a pillar, and 
waited. 

Hardly had he installed himself there, when the door oppo- 
site was opened immediately the unknown had whispered a word 
through the keyhole, and yet he did not venture beyond the 
threshold. 

A moment afterwards the lady appeared within the doorway. 

She took hold of the cavalier’s arm, who led her to the litter, 
closed the door of it, and then mounted his horse. 

“ There is no doubt on the subject,” said Chicot, “ it is the 
husband, a good-natured fellow of a husband after all, since he 
does not think it worth his while to explore the house in order 
to be revenged on my friend Carmainges.” 

The litter then moved off, the cavalier walking his horse 
beside the cfoor of it. 

“ Pardieu !” said Chicot, “ I must follow those people and 
learn who they are, and where they are going ; I shall at all 
events draw some solid counsel from my discovery for my friend 
Carmainges.” 

Chicot accordingly followed the cortege, observing the pre- 
caution, however, of keeping in the shadow of the walls, and 
taking care that the noise made by the footsteps of the men 
and of the horses should render the sound of his own inaudible. 

Chicot’s surprise was by no means slight when he saw the 
litter stop at the door of the “ Brave Chevalier.” 

Almost immediately afterwards, as if some one had been on 
the w'atch, the door was opened. 

The lady, still veiled, alighted ; entered and mounted to the 
turret, the window of the first story of w r hich was lighted. 

The husband followed her, both being respectfully preceded 
by Dame Fournichon, w r ho carried a flambeau in her hand. 

“Decidedly,” said Chicot, crossing his arms on his chest, 
“ I cannot understand a single thing of the whole affair.” 


CHICOT BEGINS TO UNDERSTAND THE LETTER, 387 


CHAPTER LXXXIII. 

SHOWING HOW CHICOT BEGAN TO UNDERSTAND THE PURPORT 
OF MONSIEUR DE GUISE’S LETTER. 

Chicot fancied that he had already certainly seen, somewhere 
or another, the figure of this courteous cavalier ; but his memory, 
having become a little confused during his journey from Na- 
varre, where he had met with so many different figures, did not, 
with its usual facility, furnish him with the cavalier’s name on 
the present occasion. 

While, concealed in the shade, he was interrogating himself, 
with his eyes fixed upon the lighted window, as to the object 
of this lady and gentleman’s tete-a-tete at the “ Brave Che- 
valier,” our worthy Gascon, forgetting Ernanton in the mys- 
terious house, observed the door of the hostelry open, and in 
the stream of light which escaped through the opening, he 
perceived something resembling the dark outline of a monk’s 
figure. 

The outline in question paused for a moment to look up at 
the same window at which Chicot had been gazing. 

“ Oh ! oh !” he murmured ; “ if I am not mistaken, that is 
the frock of a Jacobin friar. Is Maitre Gorenflot so lax, then, 
in his discipline as to allow his sheep to go strolling about at 
such an hour of the night as this, and at such a distance from 
the priory?” 

Chicot kept his eye upon the Jacobin, who was making his 
way along the Rue des Augustins, and something seemed 
instinctively to assure him that he should, through this monk, 
discover the solution of the problem which he had up to that 
moment been vainly endeavouring to ascertain. 

Moreover, in. the same way that Chicot had fancied he had 
recognised the figure of the cavalier, he now fancied he could 
recognise in the monk a certain movement of the shoulder, and 
a peculiar military movement of the hips, which only belong 
to persons in the habit of frequenting fencing rooms and gym- 
nastic establishments. 

“ May the devil seize me,” he murmured, “ if that frock 
yonder does not cover the body of that little miscreant whom I 
wished them to give me for a travelling companion, and who 
handles his arquebuse and sword so cleverly.” 

Hardly had the idea occurred to Chicot, when, to convince 

25 — 2 


38 S THE FORTY- FIVE GUARDSMEN. 

himself of its value, he stretched out his long legs, and in a 
dozen strides rejoined the little fellow, who was walking along 
holding up his frock above his thin and sinewy legs in order to 
be able to get along all the faster. 

This was not very difficult, however, inasmuch as the monk 
paused every now and then to glafice behind him, as if he was 
going away with great difficulty and with feelings of profound 
regret. 

His glance was invariably directed towards the brilliantly- 
lighted windows of the hostelry. 

Chicot had not gone many steps before he felt sure that he 
had not been mistaken in his conjectures. 

“ Hallo ! my little master,” he said ; “ hallo ! my little 
Jacquot ; hallo ! my little Clement. Halt !” 

And he pronounced this last word in so thoroughly military 
a tone, that the monk started at it. 

“ Who calls me ?” inquired the young man rudely, with 
something rather antagonistic than cordial in his tone of voice. 

“ I !” replied Chicot, drawing himself up in front of the 
monk ; “ I ! don't you recognise me ?” 

“ Oh ! Monsieur Robert Briquet !” exclaimed the monk. 

“ Myself, my little man. And where are you going like that, 
so late, darling child ?” 

“ To the priory, Monsieur Briquet.” 

“Very good ; but where do you come from ?” 

“I?” 

“ Of course, little libertine.” 

The young man started. 

“ I don’t know what you are saying, Monsieur Briquet,” he 
replied ; “ on the contrary, I have been sent with a very impor- 
tant commission by Dorn Modeste, who will himself assure you 
that such is the case, if there be any occasion for it.” 

“ Gently, gently, my little Saint Jerome ; we take fire like a 
match, it seems.” 

“ And not without reason, too, when one hears such things 
said as you were saying just now.” 

“ Diable ! when one sees a frock like yours leaving a tavern 
at such an hour ” 

“ A tavern, I !” 

“ Oh ! of course not ; the house you left just now was not 
the ‘ Brave Chevalier/ I suppose ? Ah ! you see I have caught 
you!” 


CHICOT BEGINS TO UNDERSTAND THE LETTER. 389 

“You were right in saying that I left that house, but it was 
not a tavern I was leaving.” 

“ What !” said Chicot ; “ is not the hostelry of the sign of 
the ‘ Brave Chevalier 5 a tavern ?” 

“ A tavern is a house where people drink, and as I have not 
been drinking in that house, that house is not a tavern for me.” 

“ Diable ! that is a subtle distinction, and I am very much 
mistaken if you will not some day become a very forcible theo- 
logian ; but, at all events, if you did not go into that house to 
drink there, what did you go there for ?” 

Cle'ment made no reply, and Chicot could read in his face, 
notwithstanding the darkness of the night, a resolute determina- 
tion not to say another word. 

This resolution annoyed our friend extremely, for it had 
almost grown a habit with him to become acquainted with 
everything. 

It must not be supposed that Clement showed any ill feeling 
in his silence ; for, on the contrary, he had appeared delighted 
to meet, in so unexpected a manner, his learned fencing-master, 
Maitre Robert Briquet, and had given him the warmest recep- 
tion that could be expected from the close and rugged character 
of the youth. 

The conversation had completely ceased. Chicot, for the 
purpose of starting it again, was on the point of pronouncing 
the name of Frere Borromee ; but, although Chicot did not feel 
any remorse, or fancied he did not feel any, he could not 
summon up courage to pronounce that name. 

His young companion, still preserving the same unbroken 
silence, seemed as if he were awaiting something ; it seemed, 
too, as if he considered it a happiness to remain as long as 
possible in the neighbourhood of the hostelry of the “ Brave 
Chevalier.” 

Robert Briquet tried to speak to him about the journey 
which the boy had for a moment entertained the hope of 
making with him. 

Jacques Clement’s eyes glistened at the words space and 
liberty. 

Robert Briquet told him that in the countries through which 
he had just been travelling the art of fencing was held greatly 
in honour ; he added, with an appearance of indifference, that 
he had even brought away with him several wonderful passes 
and thrusts. 


390 


THE FORTY- FIVE GUARDSMEN \ 


This was placing Jacques upon slippery ground. He wished 
to know what these passes were ; and Chicot, with his long arm, 
indicated a few of them upon the little monk’s arm. 

But all these delicacies and refinements on Chicot’s part in 
no way affected little Clement’s obstinate determination ; and 
while he endeavoured to parry these unknown passes, which his 
friend Maitre Robert Briquet was showing him, he preserved an 
obstinate silence with respect to what had brought him into 
that quarter. 

Thoroughly annoyed, but keeping a strong control over V im- 
self, Chicot resolved to try the effect of injustice ; injustice is 
one of the most powerful provocatives ever invented to make 
women, children, and inferiors speak, whatever their nature or 
disposition may be. 

“ It does not matter,” he said, as if he returned to his origi- 
nal idea ; “ it does not matter, you are a delightful little monk ; 
but that you visit hostelries is certain, and what hostelries too ! 
Those where beautiful ladies are to be found, and you stop 
outside in a state of ecstacy before the window, where you can 
see their shadow. Oh ! little one, little one, I shall tell Dom 
Modeste all about it.” 

The bolt hit its mark, more truly so even than Chicot had 
supposed ; for when he began, he did not suspect that the 
wound had been so deep. 

Jacques turned round like a serpent that had been trodden 
on. 

“ That is not true,” he cried, crimson with shame and anger, 
" I don’t look at women.” 

“ Yes, yes,” pursued Chicot ; “ on the contrary, there was an 
exceedingly pretty woman at the ‘ Brave Chevalier ’ when you 
left it, and you turned round to look at her again ; and I know 
that you were waiting for her in the turret, and I know, too, 
that you spoke to her.” 

Chicot proceeded by the inductive process. 

] acques could not contain himself any longer. 

“ I certainly have spoken to her 1” he exclaimed ; “ is it a sin 
to speak to women ?” 

“No, when one does not speak to them of one’s own accord, 
and yielding to the temptation of Satan.” 

“ Satan has nothing whatever to do with the matter ; it was 
absolutely necessary that I should speak to that lady, since I 
was desired to hand her a letter.” 


CHICOT BEGINS TO UNDERSTAND THE LETTER. 391 


“ Desired by Dom Modeste !” cried Chicot. 

“ Yes, go and complain to him now, if you like.” 

Chicot, bewildered, and feeling his way as it were in the dark, 
perceived, at these words, a gleam of light traversing the ob- 
scurity of his brain. 

“ Ah !’ : he said, “ I knew it perfectly well.” 

“ What did you know ?” 

“ What you did not wish to tell me.” 

“ I do not tell my own secrets, and, for a greater reason, the 
secrets of others.” 

“Yes, but to me.” 

“ Why should I to you ?” 

“ You should tell them to me because I am a friend of Dom 
Modeste, and, for another reason, you should tell them to me 
because ” 

“ Well?” 

“ Because I know beforehand all you could possibly have to 
tell me.” 

Jacques looked at Chicot and shook his head with an incre- 
dulous smile. 

“ Very good !” said Chicot, “ would you like me to tell you 
what you do not wish to tell me ?” 

“ I should indeed.” 

Chicot made an effort. 

“ In the first place,” he said, “ that poor Borromde ” 

A dark expression passed across Jacques’ face. 

“ Oh !” said the boy, “ if I had been there ” 

“ Well ! if you had been there ?” 

“ The affair would not have turned out as it did.” 

“ Would you have defended him against the Swiss with whom 
he got into a quarrel ?” 

“ I would have defended him against every one.” 

“ So that he would not have been killed ?” 

“ Either that, or I should have got myself killed along with 
him. ” 

“ At all events, you were not there, so that the poor devil 
breathed his last in an obscure tavern, and in doing so pro- 
nounced Dom Modeste’s name ; is not that so ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“Whereupon the people there informed Dom Modeste 
of it ?” 

“ A man, seemingly scared out of his wits, who threw the 
whole convent into consternation.” 


392 


HE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


“ And Dom Modeste sent for his litter, and hastened to 1 La 
Corne d Abondance.’” 

“ How do you know that ?” 

“ Oh ! you don't know me yet, my boy ; I am somewhat of 
a sorcerer, I can tell you.’’ 

Jacques drew back a couple of steps. 

“ That is not all.' continued Chicot, who, as he spoke, began 
to see clearer by the light of his own words; “a letter was 
found in the dead man’s pocket.” 

“ A letter — yes, precisely so.” 

“ And Dom Modeste charged his little Jacques to carry that 
letter to its address.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ And the little Jacques ran immediately to the Hotel de 
Guise.” 

“ Oh !” 

“ Where he found no one.” 

“ Bon Dieu !” 

“ But Monsieur de Mayneville.” 

“ Good gracious !” 

“ And which same Monsieur de Mayneville conducted Jacques 
to the hostelry of the ‘ Brave Chevalier.’ ” 

“ Monsieur Briquet 1 Monsieur Briquet !” cried Jacques, “if 
you know that ” 

“ Eh ! ventre de biche ! you see very well that I do know it,” 
exclaimed Chicot, feeling triumphant at having disentangled 
this secret, which was of such importance for him to learn, 
from the provoking intricacies in which it had been at first in- 
volved. 

“ In that case,” returned Jacques, “ you see very well, Mon- 
sieur Briquet, that I am not guilty.” 

“No,” said Chicot, “you are not guilty in act, nor in omis- 
sion, but you are guilty in thought.” 

“ I !” 

“ I suppose there is no doubt you think the duchess very 
beautiful ?” 

“ I ! !” 

And you turned round to look at her again through the 
window.” 

“ I ! ! t” 

The young monk coloured and stammered out : “ Well, it is 
true, she is exactly like a Virgin Mary which was placed over 
the head of my mother’s bed.” 


CHICOT BEG IAS TO LA BE RSI A AD TIIE LETTER. 393 

“ Oh !” muttered Chicot, “ how much those people lose who 
are not curious !” 

And thereupon he made little Clement, whom from this mo- 
ment he held in his power, tell him all he had himself just told 
him, but this time with the details, which he could not possibly 
otherwise have known. 

“ You see,” said Chicot, when he had finished, “ what a poor 
fencing-master you had in Frere Borromee.” 

“ Monsieur Briquet,” said little Jacques, “ one ought not to 
speak ill of the dead.” 

“ No ; but confess one thing.” 

“ What ?” 

“ That Borromee did not make such good use of his sword 
as the man who killed him.” 

“ True.” 

“And now that is all I had to say to you. Good-night, 
Jacques ; we shall meet again soon, and if you like ” 

“ What, Monsieur Briquet ?” 

“ Why, I will give you lessons in fencing for the future.” 

“Oh ! I shall be most thankful.” 

“ And now off with you, my boy, for they are waiting for 
you impatiently at the priory.” 

“ True, true. Thank you, Monsieur Briquet, for having re- 
minded me of it.” 

And the little monk disappeared, running as fast as he could. 

Chicot had a reason for dismissing his companion. He had 
extracted from him all he wished to know, and, on the other 
hand, there still remained something further for him to learn. 
He returned, therefore, as fast as he could to his own house. 
The litter, the bearers, and the horse were still at the door of 
the “ Brave Chevalier.” 

He regained his gutter without making a noise. 

The house opposite to his own was still lighted up, and from 
that moment all his attention was directed towards it. 

In the first place, he observed, by a rent in the curtain, Er- 
nanton walking up and down, apparently waiting with great 
impatience. 

He then saw the litter return, saw Mayneville leave, and, 
lastly, he saw the duchess enter the room in which Ernanton, 
palpitating and throbbing rather than breathing, impatiently 
awaited her return. 

Ernanton kneeled before the duchess, who gave him her white 


39* 


THE FORTY- FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


hand to kiss. She then raised the young man from the ground, 
and made him sit down before her at a table which was most 
elegantly served. 

“ This is very singular/’ said Chicot , “ it began like a con- 
spiracy, and finishes by a rendezvous. 

“ Yes,” continued Chicot, “ but who appointed this rendez- 
vous? 

“ Madame de Montpensier.” 

And then, as a fresh light flashed through his brain, he mur- 
mured, “ I entirely approve of your plan with regard to the 
Forty-five ; only allow me to say, dear sister, that you will be 
conferring a greater honour on those fellows than they deserve/ 

“ Ventre de biche !” exclaimed Chicot, “ I return to my 
original idea — it is not a love affair, but a conspiracy. 

“ Madame la Duchesse de Montpensier is in love with Mon- 
sieur Ernanton de Carmainges ; let us watch over this lovo c.ffair 
of Madame la Duchesse.” 

And Chicot watched until midnight had long passed, when 
Ernanton hastened away, his cloak concealing his face, whilst 
Madame la Duchesse de Montpensier returned to her litter. 

“ Now,” murmured Chicot, as he descended his own stair- 
case. “ what is that chance of death which is to deliver the Due 
de Guise from the presumptive heir of the crown ? who are 
those defunct persons who were thought to be dead, but are 
still living? 

“ Mordioux ! I shall trace them before long.” 


CHAPTER LXXXIV 

LE CARDINAL DE JOYEUSE. 

Youth has its obstinate resolutions, both as regards good and 
evil in the world, which are by no means inferior to the inflexi- 
bility of purpose of maturer years. 

When directed towards good purposes, instances of this 
dogged obstinacy of character produce what are termed the 
great actions of life, and impress on the man who enters life an 
impulse which bears him onward, by a natural course, towards a 
heroism of character of some kind or another. 

In this way Bayard and Du Guesclin became great captains, 
from having been the most ill-tempered and most intractable 
children that ever existed ; in the same way, too, the swineherd, 


395 


LE CARDINAL DE JO YE USE. 

whom nature had made the herdsman of Montalte, and whose 
genius had converted him into Sexte Quinte, became a great 
pope, because he had persisted in performing his duties as a 
swineherd in an indifferent manner. 

Again, in the same way were the worst Spartan natures dis- 
played in a heroic sense, after they had commenced life by a 
persistence in dissimulation and cruelty. 

All we have now to sketch is the portrait of a man of an 
ordinary stamp , and yet, more than one biographer would have 
found in Hern du Bouchage, at twenty years of age, the materials 
for a great man. 

Henri obstinately persisted in his affection and in his seclusion 
from the world ; as his brother had begged and as the king had 
required him to do, he remained for some days closeted alone 
with his one enduring thought ; and then, when that thought 
had become more and more fixed and unchangeable in its 
nature, he one morning decided to pay a visit to his brother the 
cardinal, an important personage, who, at the age of twenty-six, 
had already for two years past been a cardinal, and who, from 
the archbishopric of Narbonne, had passed to the highest 
degrees of ecclesiastical dignity, a position to which he was in- 
debted as much to his nobl' descent as to his powerful intellect. 

Francois de Joyeuse, whom we have already introduced with 
the object of enlightening Henri de Valois respecting the doubt 
he had entertained with regard to Sylla, — Francis de Jcyeuse, 
young and worldly-minded, handsome and witty, was one of the 
most remarkable men of the period. Ambitious by nature, but 
circumspect by calculation and position, Francis de Joyeuse 
could assume as his device, “ Nothing is too much,” and justify 
his device. 

The only one, perhaps, of all those who belonged to the 
court — and Francois de Joyeuse was attached to the court in 
a very especial manner — he had been able to create for him- 
self two means of support out of the religious and lay thrones 
to which he in some measure approximated as a French gentle- 
man, and as a prince of the church ; Sixtus protected him 
against Henry III., Henry III. protected him against Sixtus. 
He was an Italian at Paris, a Parisian at Rome, magnificent 
and able everywhere. 

The sword alone of Joyeuse, the high admiral, gave the 
latter more weight in the balance ; but it might be noticed from 
certain smiles of the cardinal, that if those temporal arms failed 


396 


TIIE FORTY FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


him, which the hand of his brother, refined and admired as he 
was, wielded so successfully, he himself knew not only how to 
use, but also how to abuse, the spiritual weapons which had 
been entrusted to him by the sovereign head of the Church. 

The Cardinal Francois de Joyeuse had very rapidly become a 
wealthy man, wealthy in the first place from his own patrimony, 
and then from his different benefices. At that period the Church 
was richly endowed — very richly endowed even, and when its 
treasures were exhausted, it knew the sources, which at the present 
day are exhausted, where and whence to renew them. 

Francois de Joyeuse, therefore, lived in the most magnificent 
manner. Leaving to his brother all the pageantry and glitter 
of a military household, he crowded his saloons with priests, 
bishops, and archbishops ; he gratified his own individual pecu- 
liar fancies. On his attaining the dignity of cardinal, as he was 
a prince of the church, and consequently superior to his brother, 
he had added to his household pages according to the Italian 
fashion, and guards according to that which prevailed at the? 
French court. But these guards and pages were used by him 
as a still greater means of enjoying liberty of action. He fre- 
quently ranged his guards and pages round a huge litter, through 
the curtains of which his secretary passed his gloved hand, 
whilst he himself, on horseback, his sword by his side, rode 
through the town disguised with a wig, an enormous ruff round 
his neck, and horseman’s boots, the sound of which delighted 
him beyond measure. 

The cardinal lived, therefore, in the enjoyment of the greatest 
consideration, for, at certain elevated positions in life, human 
fortunes are absorbing in their nature, and, as if they were com- 
posed of nothing else but of adhesive particles, oblige all other 
fortunes to attend on and follow them like satellites ; and on 
that account, therefore, the recent and marvellous successes of 
his brother Anne reflected on him ail the brilliancy of those 
achievements. Moreover, as he had scrupulously followed the 
precept of concealing his mode of life, and of dispensing and 
diffusing his mental wealth, he was only known by the "better 
sides of his character, and in his own family was accounted a 
very great man, a happiness which many sovereigns laden with 
glory and crowned with the acclamations of a whole nation have 
not enjoyed. 

It was to this prelate that the Comte du Bouchage betook 
himself after his explanation with his brother, and after his con- 


397 


LE CARDINAL DE JO YE USE. 

versation with the King of France ; but, as we have already 
observed, he allowed a few days to elapse in token of obedience 
to the injunction which had been imposed on him by his elder 
brother, as well as by the king. 

Francois resided in a beautiful mansion in that part of Paris 
called La Cite. The immense court-yard was never quite free 
from cavaliers and litters ; but the prelate, whose garden was 
immediately contiguous to the bank of the river, allowed his 
court yards and his ante-chambers to become crowded with 
courtiers ; and as he had a mode of egress towards the river- 
bank, and a boat close thereto, which conveyed him without 
any disturbance as far and as quietly as he chose, it not unfre- 
quently happened that the courtiers uselessly waited to see the 
prelate, who availed himself of the pretext of a serious indis- 
position, or a rigid penance, to postpone his reception for the 
day. For him it was a realisation of Italy in the bosom of the 
capital of the King of France, it was Venice embraced by the 
two arms of the Seine. 

Francois was proud, but by no means vain ; he loved his 
friends as brothers, and his brothers nearly as much as his 
friends. Five years older than Du Bouchage, he withheld from 
him neither good nor evil counsel, neither his purse nor his 
smile. 

But as he wore his cardinal’s costume with wonderful effect, 
Du Bouchage thought him handsome, noble, almost formidable, 
and accordingly respected him more, perhaps, than he did the 
elder of them both. Henri, with his beautiful cuirass, and the 
glittering accessories of his military costume, tremblingly con- 
fided his love affairs to Anne, while he would not have dared 
to confess himself to Francis. 

However, when he proceeded to the cardinal’s hotel, his reso- 
lution was taken, and he accosted, frankly enough, the confessor 
first, and the friend afterwards. 

He entered the court-yard, which several gentlemen were at 
that moment quitting, wearied at having solicited without having 
obtained the favour of an audience. 

He passed through the ante-chambers, saloons, and then the 
more private apartments. He had been told, as others had, 
that his brother was engaged in conference ; but the idea of 
closing any of the doors before Du Bouchage never occurred to 
any of the attendants. 

Du Bouchage, therefore, passed through all the apartments 


398 THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 

until he reached the garden, a true garden of a Roman prel te, 
luxurious in its shade, coolness, and perfume, such as, at the 
present day, may be found at the Villa Pamphile or the Palais 
Borghese. 

Heiiri paused under a group of trees : at this moment the gate 
close to the river side rolled on its hinges, and a man shrouded 
in a large brown cloak passed through, followed by a person in 
a page’s costume. The man, perceiving Henri, who was too 
absorbed in his reverie to think of him, glided through the trees, 
avoiding the observation either of Du Bouchage or of anyone else. 

Henri paid no attention to this mysterious entry ; and it was 
only as he turned round that he saw the man entering the apart- 
men s 

A.'ter he had waited about ten minntes, and as he was about 
to enter the house, for the purpose of interrogating one of the 
attendants with the view of ascertaining at what hour precisely 
his brother would be visible, a servant, who seemed to be in 
search of him, observed his approach, and advancing in his 
direction, begged him to have the goodness to pass into the 
library, where the cardinal awaited him. 

Henri complied with this invitation, but not very readily, as 
he conjectured that a fresh contest would result from it ; he 
found his brother the cardinal engaged, with the assistance of a 
valet-de-chambre, in trying on a prelate’s costume, a little worldly- 
looking, perhaps, in its shape and fashion, but elegant and be- 
coming in its style. 

v Good-morning, comte,” said the cardinal ; “ what news have 
you ?” 

“Excellent news, as far as our family is concerned,” said 
Henri. “ Anne, you know, has covered himself with glory in 
that retreat from Anvers, and is alive.” 

“ Heaven be praised ! and are you too, Henri, safe and 
sound ?” 

“ Yes, my brother.” 

“You see,” said the cardinal, “that heaven holds us in its 
keeping.” 

“Iam so full of gratitude to heaven, my brother, that I have 
formed the project of dedicating myself to its service. I am 
come to talk seriously to you upon this project, which is now 
well matured, and about which I have already spoken to you.” 

“ Do you still keep to that idea, Du Bouchage ?” said the 
cardinal, allowing a slight exclamation to escape him, which 
was indicative that Joyeuse would have a struggle to encounter. 


LE CARDINAL DE JO YE USE. 


399 


“ I do.” 

“ But it is impossible, Henri,” returned the cardinal ; “ have 
you not been told so already ?” 

“ I have not listened to what others have said to me, my 
brother, because a voice stronger than mine, which speaks within 
me, prevents me from listening to anything which would turn 
me aside from my purpose.” 

“ You cannot be so ignorant of the things of this world, 
Henri,” said the cardinal, in his most serious tone of voice, 
“to believe that the voice you allude to was really that of 
Heaven ; on the contrary — I assert it positively, too — it is 
altogether a feeling of a worldly nature which addresses you. 
Heaven has nothing to do in this affair; do not abuse that holy 
name, therefore, and, above all, do not confound the voice of 
Heaven with that of earth.” 

“ I do not confound, my brother ; I only mean to say that 
something irresistible in its nature hurries me towards retreat 
and solitude.” 

“ So far, so good, Henri ; we are now making use of proper 
expressions. Well, my dear brother, I will tell you what is to 
be done. Taking what you say for granted, I am going to 
render you the happiest of men.” 

“ Thank you, oh ! thank you, my brother.” 

“Listen to me, Henri. You must take money, a couple of 
attendants, and travel through the whole of Europe, in a manner 
befitting a son of the house to which we belong. You will see 
foreign countries ; Tartary, Russia, even the Laplanders, those 
fabulous nations whom the sun never visits ; you will become 
absorbed in your thoughts, until the devouring germ which is 
at work in you becomes either extinct or satiated ; and, after 
that, you will return to us again.” 

Henri, who had been seated, now rose, more serious than hie 
brother had been. 

“ You have not understood me, monseigneur,” he said. 

“ I beg your pardon, Henri; you made use of the word's ‘retreat 
and solitude.’ ” 

“ Yes, I did so ; but by retreat and solitude, I meant a 
cloister, and not travelling ; to travel is to enjoy life stilL I 
wish almost to suffer death, and if I do not suffer it, at least to 
feel it.” 

“ That is an absurd thought, allow me to say, Henri ; for 
whoever, in point of fact, wishes to isolate himself, is alone every- 


400 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


where. Bat the cloister, let it be. Well, then, I understand 
that you have come to talk to me about this project. I know 
some very learned Benedictines, and some very clever Augus- 
tines, whose houses are cheerful, adorned with flowers, attrac- 
tive, and agreeable in every respect. Amidst the works of 
science and art you will pass a delightful year, in excellent 
society, which is of no slight importance, for one should avoid 
lowering one’s self in this world ; and if at the end of the year 
you persist in your project, well, then, my dear Henri, I will 
not oppose you any further, and will myself open the door which 
will peacefully conduct you to everlasting rest.” 

“ Most certainly you still misunderstand me, my brother,” 
replied Du Bouchage, shaking his head, “ or I should rather say 
your generous intelligence will not comprehend me. I do not 
wish for a cheerful residence or a delightful retreat, but a 
rigorously strict seclusion, as gloomy as the grave itself. I in- 
tend to pronounce my vows, vows which will leave me no other 
thought or occupation than a grave to dig for myself, or constant 
prayer.” 

The cardinal frowned, and rose from his seat. 

“ Yes,” he said, “ I did perfectly understand you ; and I 
endeavoured by opposition, without set phrases or discussion, to 
combat the folly of your resolutions, but you oblige me to do 
so ; and now listen to me.” 

“ Ah !” said Henri, despondently, “ do not try to convince 
me ; it is impossible.” 

“ Brother, I will speak to you in the name of Heaven, in the 
first place ; of Heaven, which you offend in saying that this 
wild resolution is of its inspiration. Heaven does not accept 
sacrifices hastily made. You are weak, since you allow your- 
self to be conquered by a first disappointment ; how can Heaven 
be pleased to accept a victim as unworthy as that you offer ?” 

Henri started at his brother’s remark. 

“ Oh ! I shall no longer spare you. Henri, you, who never 
consider any of us,” returned the cardinal ; “ you, who forget 
the grief which you will cause our elder brother, and will cause 
me too ” 

“ Forgive me,” interrupted Henri, whose cheeks were dyed 
with crimson, “ forgive me, monseigneur ; but is the service of 
Heaven then so gloomy and so dishonourable a career that all 
the members of a family are to be thrown into distress by it ? 
You, for instance, my brother, whose portrait I observe sus- 


LE CARDINAL DE JO YE USE. 


401 


pended in this room, with all this gold, and diamonds, and 
purple around you, are you not both the delight and honour of 
our house, although you have chosen the service of Heaven, 
as my eldest brother has chosen that of the kings of the earth ?” 

“ Boy, boy !” exclaimed the cardinal impatiently, “ you will 
make me believe your brain is turned. What ! will you ven- 
ture to compare my residence to a cloister ? my hundred at- 
tendants, my outriders, the gentlemen of my suite, and my 
guards, to a cell and a broom, which are the only arms and the 
sole wealth of a cloister ? Are you mad ? Did you not just 
now say that you repudiate these superfluities — these pictures, 
precious vases, pomp and distinction, which I cannot do with- 
out ? Have you, as I have, the desire and hope of placing on 
your brow the tiara of St. Peter? That, indeed, is a career, 
Henri ; one presses onwards towards it, struggles for it, lives in 
it. But as for you ! it is the miner’s pick, the trappist’s spade, 
the gravedigger’s tomb, that you desire ; utter abandonment of 
life, of pleasure, of hope ; and all that — I blush with shame 
for you, a man — all that, I say, because you love a woman who 
loves you not. You do foul injustice to your race, Henri, most 
truly.” 

“ Brother !” exclaimed the young man, pale as death, while 
his eyes blazed with kindling fire, “ would you sooner have me 
blow out my brains, or plunge in my heart the sword I have the 
honour to wear by my side ? Pardieu, monseigneur, if you, who 
are cardinal and prince besides, will give me absolution for so 
mortal a sin, the affair will be so quickly done that you shall 
have no time to complete your odious and unworthy thought 
that I am capable of dishonouring my race, which, Heaven be 
praised, a Joyeuse will never do.” 

“ Come, come, Henri,” said the cardinal, drawing his brother 
towards him, and pressing him in his arms ; “ come, forget what 
has passed, and think of those who love you. I have personal 
motives for entreating you. Listen to me ; a rare occurrence in 
this world of ours, we are all happy, some from feelings of grati- 
fied ambition, the ethers from blessings of every kind with which 
Heaven has bedecked our existence. Do not, I implore you, 
Henri, cast the mortal poison of the retreat you speak of upon 
our family happiness ; think how our father would be grieved 
at it ; think, too, how all of us would bear on our countenances 
the dark reflection of the bitter mortification you are about to 
inflict upon us. I beseech you, Henri, to allow yourself to be 


402 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


persuaded ; the cloister will not benefit you, I do not say that 
you will die there, for, misguided man, your answer will be a 
smile, which alas, would be only too intelligible for me. No, 
believe me that the cloister is more fatal to you than the tomb. 
The tomb annihilates but life itself, the cloister annihilates in* 
telligence ; the cloister bows the head, instead of raising it to 
heaven ; the cold, humid atmosphere of the vaults passes by 
degrees into the blood, and penetrates the very marrow of the 
bones, changing the cloistered recluse into another granite statue 
in the convent. My brother, my dear brother, take heed ; our 
time here below is but brief youth visits us but once in our lives. 
The bright years of our earlier days will pass away too, for you 
are under the influence of a deep-seated grief , but at thirty 
years of age you will have become a man, the vigour of maturity 
will have then arrived ; it will hurry away with it all that remains 
of your worn out sorrow, and then you will wish to live over 
again ; but it will be too late. Then, too, you will have grown 
melancholy in thought, plain in person, suffering in feeling ; pas- 
sion will have been extinguished in your heart, the bright light 
of your eye will have become quenched They whose society 
you seek will flee you as a whited sepulchre, whose darksome 
depths repel every glance. Henri, I speak as a friend, seriously, 
wisely , listen to me.’' 

The young man remained unmoved and silent. The car- 
dinal hoped that he had touched his feelings, and had shaken 
his resolution 

“ Try some other resource, Henri. Carry this poisoned shaft, 
which rankles in your bosom, about with you wherever you may 
go, in the turmoil of life ; cherish its companionship at our 
fetes and banquets , imitate the wounded deer, which flees 
through the thickets and brakes and forests, in its efforts to 
draw out from its body the arrow which is rankling in the wound ; 
sometimes the arrow falls.” 

“ For pity’s sake,” said Henri, “ do not persist any more ; 
what I solicit is not the caprice of a moment, or the reflection 
of an hour ; it is the result of a laborious and painful deter- 
mination. In Heaven’s name, therefore, my brother, I adjure 
you to accord me the favour I solicit.” 

“ And what is the favour you ask ?” 

“A dispensation, monseigneur.” 

“ For what purpose ?” 

“To shorten my noviciate'” 


403 


LE CARDINAL DE JO YE USE. 

“ Ah ! I knew it, Du Eouchage. You are wordly-minded 
even in your rigorousness, my poor boy. Oh ! I know very 
well what reason you are going to give me. Yes, you are, in- 
deed, a man of the world, you resemble those young men who 
offer themselves as volunteers, and are eagerly desirous for fire, 
balls, and blows, but care not for working in the trenches, or 
for sweeping out the tents. There is some resource left yet, 
Henri , so much the better, so much the better.” 

Give me the dispensation I ask , I entreat you on my knees.” 

“ I promise it to you ; I will write to Rome for it. It will 
be a month before the answer arrives ; but, in exchange, promise 
me one thing.” 

“ Name it.” 

“ That you will not, during this month’s postponement, re- 
ject any pleasure or amusement which may be offered to you ; 
and if, in a month hence, you still entertain the same projects, 
Henri, I will give you this dispensation with my own hand. 
Are you satisfied now, and have you nothing further to ask me?” 

“ No. I thank you ; but a month is a long time, and the delay 
will kill me.” 

“In the meantime, and in order to change your thoughts, 
will you object to breakfast with me ? I have some agreeable 
companions this morning.” 

And the prelate smiled in a manner which the most worldly- 
disposed favourites of Henri III. would have envied. 

“ Brother,” said Du Bouchage, resisting. 

“ I will not accept any excuse ; you have no one but myself 
here, since you have just arrived from Flanders, and your own 
house cannot be in order just yet” 

With these words the cardinal rose, and drawing aside a 
portiere , which hung before a large cabinet sumptuously fur- 
nished, he said : 

“ Come, comtesse, let us persuade Monsieur le Comte du 
Bouchage to stay with us.” 

At the very moment, however, when the count drew aside the 
portiere, Henri had observed, half reclining upon the cushions, 
the page who had with the gentleman entered the gate adjoin- 
ing the banks of the river, and in this page, before even the 
prelate had announced her sex, he had recognised a woman. 

An indefinable sensation, like a sudden terror, or an over- 
whelming feeling of dread, seized him, and while the worldly 
cardinal advanced to take the beautiful page by the hand, 

26 — 2 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


404 

Henri du Bouchage darted from the apartment, and so quickly, 
too, that when Frangois returned with the lady, smiling with the 
hope of winning a heart back again to the world, the room was 
perfectly empty. 

Francis frowned ; then, seating himself before a table covered 
with papers and letters, he hurriedly wrote a few lines. 

“ May I trouble you to ring, dear countess,” he said, “ since 
you have your hand near the bell.” 

And as the page obeyed, a valet-de-chambre in the confidence 
of the cardinal appeared. 

“ Let a courier start on horseback, without a moment’s loss 
of time,” said Francois, “and take this letter to Monsieur le 
Grand-amiral k Chateau-Thierry.” 


CHAPTER LXXXV. 

NEWS FROM AURILLY. 

On the following day the king was working at the Louvre with 
the superintendent of finances, when an attendant entered to 
inform his majesty that Monsieur de Joyeuse, the eldest son of 
that family, had just arrived, and was waiting for him in the 
large audience chamber, having come from Chateau-Thierry, 
with a message from Monsieur le Due d’Anjou. 

The king precipitately left the business which occupied him, 
and ran to meet a friend whom he regarded with so much 
affection. 

A large number of officers and courtiers crowded the cabinet ; 
the queen -mother had arrived that evening, escorted by her 
maids of honour, and these light-hearted girls were, like suns, 
always attended by their satellites. 

The king gave Joyeuse his hand to kiss, and glanced with a 
satisfied expression around the assembly. 

In the angle of the entrance door, in his usual place, stood 
Henri du Bouchage, rigorously discharging his service and the 
duties which were imposed on him. 

The king thanked him, and saluted him with a friendly recog- 
nition, to which Henri replied by a profound reverence. 

This good intelligence which prevailed between them mads 
Joyeuse turn his head and smilingly look at his brother, without, 
however, saluting him in too marked a manner, from the fear of 
violating etiquette. 

“Sire,” said Joyeuse, “I am sent to your majesty by Mom 


NEWS FROM AURJLLY 


405 


sieur le Due d’ Anjou, recently returned from the expedition to 
Flanders ” 

“ Is my brother well, monsieur l’amiral ?” inquired the king. 

“ As well, sire, as the state of his mind will permit ; however, 

I will not conceal from your majesty that he appears to be 
suffering greatly.” 

“ He must need something to change the current of his 
thoughts after his misfortune,” said the king, delighted at the 
opportunity of proclaiming the check which his brother had met 
with, while appearing to pity him. 

“ I believe he does, sire.” 

“We have been informed that the disaster had been most 
severe.” 

“ Sire ” 

“ But that, thanks to you, a great portion of the army had 
been saved ; thanks, monsieur l’amiral, thanks. Does poor 
Monsieur d’Anjou wish to see us ?” 

“ Most anxiously so, sire.” 

“ In that case we will see him. Are not you of that opinion, 
madame ?” said Henri, turning towards Catherine, whose heart 
was wrung with feelings, the expression of which her face deter- 
minedly concealed. 

“ Sire,” she replied, “ I should have gone alone to meet my 
son ; but since your majesty condescends to join with me in 
this mark of kind consideration, the journey will be a party of 
pleasure for me.” 

“You will accompany us, messieurs,” said the ling to the 
courtiers; “we will set off to-morrow, and I sha.i seep at 
Meaux.” 

“Shall I at once announce this excellent news to mon- 
seigneur, sire?” 

“Not so; what ! leave me so soon, monsieur l’amiral? not 
so, indeed. I can well understand that a Joyeuse must be 
loved and sought after by my brother, but we have two of the 
same family, thank heaven. Du Bouchage, you will start for 
Chateau-Thierry, if you please.” 

“ Sire,” said Henri, “ may I be permitted, after having 
announced your majesty’s arrival to Monseigneur le Due 
d’ Anjou, to return to Paris?” 

“ You may do as you please, Du Bouchage,” said the king. 

Henri bowed and advanced towards the door. Fortunately 
Joyeuse was watching him narrowly. 


4 o3 THE FORTY-FIVE GUA RDSMEL7 

“ Will you allow me to say one word to my brother ?” he 
inquired. 

“ Do so ; but what is it ?” said the king in an undertone. 

“The fact is, that he wishes to use the utmost speed to 
execute the commission, and to return again immediately, which 
happens to interfere with my projects, sire, and w r ith those of 
the cardinal.” 

“ Away with you, then, and rate this Icve-sick swain most 
roundly.” 

Anne h urried after his brother, and overtook him in the ante- 
chambers. 

“Well !” said Joyeuse; “you are setting off very eagerly, 
Henri.” 

“ Of course, my brother !” 

“ Because you wish to return here soon again ?” 

“That is quite true.” 

“ You do not intend, then, to stay any time at Chateau- 
Thierry ?” 

“ As little as possible.” 

“ Why so ?” 

“Where others are amusing themselves is not my place.” 

“ On the contrary, Henri, it is precisely because Monseigneur 
le Due d’Anjou is about to give some fetes that you should re- 
main at Chateau-Thierry.” 

“ It is impossible.” 

“ Because of your wish for retirement, and of the austere 
projects you have in view ?” 

“Yes.” 

“You have been to the king to solicit a dispensation ?” 

“ Who told you so ?” 

“ I know it to be the case.” 

“It is true, then, for I have been to him.” 

“ You will not obtain it” 

“Why so, my brother ?” 

“ Because the king has no interest in depriving himself of 
such a devoted servant as you are.” 

“ My brother, the cardinal, will therefore do what his majesty 
will be disinclined to do.” 

“ And all that for a woman ?” 

“ Anne, I entreat you, do not persist any further.” 

“ Ah ! do not fear that I shall begin over again ; but, once 
for all, let us to the point. You set off for Chateau-Thierry ; 


NEWS FROM AUK ILLY. 


407 


well, instead of returning as hurriedly as you seem disposed to 
do, I wish you to wait for me in my apartments there, it is a 
long time since we have lived together I particularly wish to 
be with you again, you understand. ’ 

‘‘You are going to Chateau Thierry to amuse yourself, Anne, 
and if I were to remain tnere I should poison all your plea- 
sures " 

Oh ! far from that, I do not care for them ; I am of a happy 
temperament, and quite fitted to drive away all your fits of 
melancholy ” 

“ Brothet ” 

“ Permit me, comte,” said the admiral, with an imperious air 
of command, “ I am the representative of our father here, and 
I enjoin you to wait for me at Chateau Thierry. You will find 
out my apartment, which will be your own also ; it is on the 
ground floor, looking out on the park/’ 

“ If you command me to do so, my brother,” said Henri, 
with a resigned air. 

“ Call it by what name you please, comte, desire or command ; 
but await my arrival.” 

“ I will obey you, my brother.” 

“And I am persuaded that you will not be angry with me for 
it,’ added Joyeuse, pressing the young man in his arms. 

The lattei withdrew from the fraternal embrace, somewhat un- 
graciously perhaps, ordered his horses, and immediately set off 
for Chateau Thierry. He hurried thither with the anger of a 
vexed and disappointed man ; that is to say, he pressed his 
horses to the top of their speed. 

The same evening, he was slowly ascending, before nightfall, 
the hill on which Chateau- Thierry is situated, with the river 
Marne flowing at its feet. 

At his name, the doors of the chateau flew open before him, 
but, as far as an audience was concerned, he was more than an 
hour before he could obtain it. 

The prince, some told him, was in his apartments ; others 
said he was asleep ; he was practising music, the valet de 
chambre supposed. No one, however, among the attendants 
could give a positive reply. 

Henri persisted, in order that he might no longer have to 
think of his service on the king, so that he might abandon 
himself from that moment to his melancholy thoughts unre- 
strained. 


408 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN, \ 


Won over by his perseverance, it being well known too that 
he and his brother were on the most intimate terms with the 
duke, Henri was ushered into one of the salons on the first 
floor, where the prince at last consented to receive him. 

Half an hour passed away, and the shades of evening insen- 
sibly closed in. 

The heavy and measured footsteps of the Due d’Anjou re- 
sounded in the gallery, and Henri, on recognising them, pre- 
pared to discharge his mission with the accustomed formal 
ceremonies. But the prince, who seemed very much pressed, 
quickly dispensed with these formalities on the part of his 
ambassador, by taking him by the hand and embracing him. 

“ Good day, comte,” he said ; “ why should they have given 
you the trouble to come and see a poor defeated general ?” 

“The king has sent me, monseigneur, to inform you that he 
is exceedingly desirous of seeing your highness, and that in 
order to enable you to recover from your fatigue, his majesty 
will himself come and pay a visit to Chateau-Thierry, to-morrow 
at the latest.” 

“ The king will be here to-morrow !” exclaimed Francis, 
with a gesture of impatience, but recovering himself immediately 
afterwards. 

“ To morrow, to-morrow,” he resumed ; “ why, the truth is, 
that nothing will be in readiness, either here or in the town, to 
receive his majesty.” 

Henri bowed, as one whose duty it had been to transmit an 
order, but whose province it was not to comment upon it. 

“ The extreme haste which their majesties have to see your 
royal highness has not allowed them to think of the embarrass- 
ment they may be the means of occasioning.” 

“Well, well,” said the prince, hurriedly, “it is for me to 
make the best use of the time I have at my disposal. I leave 
you, therefore, Henri ; thanks for the alacrity you have shown, 
for you have travelled fast, I perceive. Go and take some 
rest.” 

“ Your highness has no other orders to communicate to me?” 
Henri inquired respectfully. 

“ None. Go and lie down. You shall dine in your own 
apartment. I hold no reception this evening ; I am suffering, 
and ill at ease ; I have lost my appetite, and cannot sleep, which 
makes my life a sad, dreary one, and which, you understand, I 
do not choose to inflict upon any one else. By-the-by, you 
have heard the news ?” 


NEWS FROM AURILLY. 


40O 


“ No, monseigneur ; what news ?” 

“ Aurilly has been eaten up by the wolves ” 

“ Aurilly !” exclaimed Henri, with surprise. 

“ Yes, yes — devoured ! It is singular how every one who 
comes near me dies a violent death. Good night, oount ; may 
you sleep well !” 

And the prince hurried away rapidly. 


CHAPTER LXXXVI. 

DOUBT. 

Henri descended the staircase, and as he passed through the 
ante-chambers, observed many officers of his acquaintance, who 
ran forward to meet him, and, with many marks of friendship, 
offered to show him the way to his brother’s apartments, which 
were situated at one of the angles of the chateau. It was the 
library that the duke had given Joyeuse to reside in during his 
residence at Chateau-Thierry. 

Two salons, furnished in the style of Fran5ois the First, com- 
municated with each other, and terminated in the library, the 
latter apartment looking out on the gardens. 

His bed had been put up in the library. Joyeuse was of an 
indolent, yet of a cultivated turn of mind. If he stretched out 
his arm he laid his hand on science ; if he opened the windows 
he could enjoy the beauties of nature. Finer and superior or- 
ganizations require more satisfying enjoyments ; and the morn- 
ing breeze, the songs of birds, or the perfumes of flowers, added 
fresh delight to the triplets of Clement Marot, or to the odes of 
Rousard. 

Henri determined to leave everything as it was, not because 
he was influenced by the poetic sybaritism of his brother, but, 
on the contrary, from indifference, and because it mattered little 
to him whether he was there or elsewhere. 

But as the count, in whatever frame of mind he might be, 
had been brought up never to neglect his duty or respect to- 
wards the king or the princes of the royal family of France, he 
inquired particularly in what part of the chateau the prince had 
resided since his return. 

By mere accident, in this respect, Henri met with an excel- 
lent cicerone in the person of the young ensign, who, by some 
act of indiscretion or another, had, in the little village in Flan- 
ders where w T e represented the personages in this, tale as having 


4io 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN, 


halted for a moment, communicated the count's secret to the 
prince. This ensign had not quitted the prince’s side since his 
return, and could inform Henri very accurately on the subject. 

On his arrival at Chateau-Thierry, the prince had at first en- 
tered upon a course of reckless dissipation. At that time he 
occupied the state apartments of the chateau, had receptions 
morning and evening, and was engaged during (he day stag- 
hunting in the forest ; but since the intelligence of Aurilly’s 
death, which had reached the prince without its being known 
from what source, the prince had retired to a pavilion situated 
in the middle of the park. This pavilion, which was an 
almost inaccessible retreat except to the intimate associates of 
the prince, was hidden from view by the dense foliage of the 
surrounding trees, and could hardly be perceived above their 
lofty summits, or through the thick foliage of the hedges. 

It was to this pavilion that the prince had retired during the 
last few days Those who did not know him well said that it 
was Aunlly’s death which had made him betake himself to this 
solitude ; while those who were well acquainted with his cha- 
racter pretended that he was carrying out in this pavilion somo 
base or infamous plot, which some day or another would be re- 
vealed to light. 

A circumstance which rendered cither of these suppositions 
much more probible was, that the prince seemed greatly an- 
noyed whenever a matter of business or a visit summoned him 
to the chateau ; and so decidedly was this the case, that no 
sooner had the visit been received, or the matter of business 
been despatched, than he returned to his solitude, where he was 
waited upon only by the two old valets-de-chambre who had 
been present at his birth. 

“ Since this is the case,” observed Henri, “ the fetes will not 
be very gay if the prince continue in this humour.” 

“ Certainly,” replied the ensign, “ for every one will know 
how to sympathise with the prince’s grief, whose pride as well 
as whose affections have been so smitten.” 

Henri continued his interrogatories without intending it, and 
took a strange interest in doing so. The circumstance of 
Aurilly’s death, whom he had known at the court, and whom 
he had again met in Flanders ; the kind of indifference with 
which the prince had announced the loss he had met with ; the 
strict seclusion in which it was said the prince had lived since 
his death — all this seemed to him, without his being able to 
assign a reason for his belief, as part of that mysterious and 


DOUBT. 


411 

darkened web wherein, for some time past, the events of his 
life had been woven. 

“ And,” inquired he of the ensign, “ it is not known, you 
say, how the prince became acquainted with the news of the 
death of Aurilly ?’’ 

“No.” 

“ But surely,” he insisted, “ people must talk about it ?” 

“ Oh ! of course,” said the ensign ; “ true or false, you know, 
people always will talk.” 

“ Well, then, tell me what it is.” 

“ It is said that the prince was hunting under the willows 
close beside the river, and that he had wandered away from 
the others who were hunting also, for everything he does is 
by fits and starts, and he becomes as excited in the field as at 
play, or under fire, or under the influence of grief, when sud- 
denly he was seen returning with a face scared and as pale as 
death. 

“ The courtiers questioned him, thinking that it was nothing 
more than a mere incident of the hunting-field. 

“ He held two rouleaux of gold in his hand. 

“ ‘ Can you understand this, messieurs ?’ he said, in a hard 
dry voice ; ‘ Aurilly is dead ; Aurilly has been eaten by the 
wolves.’ 

“ Every one immediately exclaimed. 

“‘Nay, indeed,’ said the prince; ‘may the foul fiend take 
me if it be not so ; the poor lute-player had always been a far 
better musician than a horseman. It seems that his horse ran 
away with him, and that he fell into a pit, where he was killed ; 
the next day a couple of travellers who were passing close to 
the pit discovered his body half eaten by the wolves ; and a 
proof that the affair actually did happen, as I have related it, 
and that robbers have nothing whatever to do with the whole 
matter is, that here are two rouleaux of gold which he had 
about him, and which have been faithfully restored.’ 

‘ However, as no one had been seen to bring these two rou- 
leaux of gold back,” continued the ensign, “ it is supposed that 
they had been handed to the prince by the two travellers who, 
having met and recognised his highness on the banks of the 
river, had announced the intelligence of Aurilly’s death.” 

“It is very strange,” murmured Henri. 

“ And what is more strange still,” continued the ensign, “ is, 
that it is said — can it be true, or is it merely an invention ? — 
it is said, I repeat, that the prince was seen to open the little 


412 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN . 


gate of the park close to the chestnut trees, and that something 
like two shadows passed through that same gate. The prince 
then introduced two persons into the park — probably the two 
travellers ; it is since that occasion that the prince has retired 
into his pavilion, and we have only been able to see him by 
stealth.” 

“ And has no one seen these two travellers ?” asked Henri. 

“ As I was proceeding to ask the prince the password for the 
night, for the sentinels on duty at the chateau, I met a man 
who did not seem to me to belong to his highness’s household, 
but I was unable to observe his face, the man having turned 
aside as soon as he perceived me, and having let down the 
hood of his cloak over his eyes.” 

“ The hood of his cloak, do you say ?” 

“Yes ; the man looked like a Flemish peasant, and reminded 
me, I hardly know why, of the person by whom you were accom- 
panied when we met out yonder.” 

Henri started ; the observation seemed to him in some way 
connected with the profound and absorbing interest with which 
the story inspired him ; to him, too, who had seen Diana and 
her companion confided to Aurilly, the idea occurred that the 
two travellers who had announced to the prince the death of 
the unfortunate lute -player were acquaintances of his own. 

Henri looked attentively at the ensign. 

“ And when you fancied you recognised this man, what was 
the idea that occurred to you, monsieur ?” he inquired. 

“ I will tell you what my impression was,” replied the ensign \ 
“ however, I will not pretend to assert anything positively ; the 
prince has not, in all probability, abandoned all idea with re- 
gard to Flanders ; he therefore maintains spies in his employ. 
The man with the woollen overcoat is a spy, who, on his way 
here, may possibly have learned the accident which had happened 
to the musician, and may thus have been the bearer of two 
pieces of intelligence at the same time.” 

“ That is not improbable,” said Henri, thoughtfully ; “ but 
what was this man doing when you saw him ?” 

“ He was walking beside the hedge which borders the par- 
terre — you can see the hedge from your windows — and was 
making towards the conservatories.” 

“ You say, then, that the two travellers, for I believe you 
stated there were two— — ” 

“ Others say that two persons were seen to enter, but I only 
saw one, the man in the overcoat.” 


DOUBT. 


4*3 


“ In that case, then, you have reason to believe that the man 
in the overcoat, as you describe him, is living in the conserva- 
tories. ” 

“ It is not unlikely.” 

“ And have these conservatories a means of exit ?” 

“ Yes, count, towards the town.” 

Henri remained silent for some time ; his heart was throb- 
bing most violently, for these details, which were apparently 
matters of indifference to him, who seemed throughout the 
whole of this mystery as if he were gifted with the power of 
prevision, were, in reality, full of the deepest interest for him. 

Night had in the meantime closed in, and the two young men 
were conversing together without any light in Joyeuse’s apart- 
ment. 

Fatigued by his journey, oppressed by the strange events 
which had just been related to him, unable to struggle against 
the emotions which they had aroused in his breast, the count 
had thrown himself on his brother’s bed, and mechanically 
directed his gaze towards the deep blue heavens above him, 
which seemed set as with diamonds. 

The young ensign was seated on the ledge of the window, 
and voluntarily abandoned himself to that listlessness of thought, 
to that poetic reverie of youth, to that absorbing languor of feel- 
ing, which the balmy freshness of evening inspires. 

A deep silence reigned throughout the park and the town ; 
the gates were closed, the lights were kindled by degrees, the 
dogs in the distance were barking in their kennels at the ser- 
vants, on whom devolved the duty of shutting up the stables in 
the evening. 

Suddenly the ensign rose to his feet, made a sign of attention 
with his head, leaned out of the window, and then, calling in a 
quick, low tone to the count, who was reclining on the bed, said : 

“ Come, come I” 

“What is the matter?” Henri inquired, arousing himself Dy 
a strong effort from his reverie. 

“ The man ! the man !” 

“ What man ?” 

“ The man in the overcoat, the spy !” 

“Oh !” exclaimed Henri, springing from the bed to the win- 
dow, and leaning on the ensign. 

“ Stay,” continued the ensign ; “ do you see him yonder ? 
He is creeping alpng the hedge ; wait a moment, he will show 


AH 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUAR PRAIA X, 


himself again. Now look towards that spot which is illuminated 
by the moon’s rays, there he is ; there he is.” 

“Yes.” 

“ Do you not think he is a sinister-looking fellow ?” 

“ Sinister is the very word,” replied Du Bouchage, in a gloomy 
voice. 

“ Do you believe he is a spy ?” 

“ I believe nothing, and yet I believe everything.” 

“ See, he is going from the prince’s pavilion to the conser- 
vatories.” 

“ The prince’s pavilion is in that direction, then ?” inquired 
Du Bouchage, indicating with his finger the direction from which 
the stranger appeared to be proceeding. 

“ Do you see that light whose rays are trembling through the 
leaves of the trees.” 

“ Well ?” 

“ That is the dining-room.” 

“ Ah !” exclaimed Henri, “ see, he makes his appearance 
again.” 

“ Yes, he is no doubt going to the conservatories to join his 
companion ? Did you hear that ?” 

“ What ?” 

“ The sound of a key turning in the lock.” 

“ It is singular,” said Du Bouchage ; “there is nothing unusual 
in all this, and yet ” 

“ And yet you are trembling, you were going to say ?” 

“ Yes,” said the count ; “ but what is that ?” 

The sound of a bell was heard. 

“ It is the signal for the supper of the prince’s household ; 
are you going to join us at supper, count ?” 

“ No, I thank you, I do not require anything ; and, if I shouid 
feel hungry, I will call for what I may need.” 

“ Do not wait for that, monsieur ; but come and amuse your- 
self in our society.” 

“ Nay, nay, it is impossible.” 

“ Why so ?” 

“ His royal highness almost directed me to have what I should 
need served to me in my own apartment ; but do not let me 
delay you.” 

“ Thank you, count, good evening ; do not lose sight of our 
phantom.” 

“ Oh ! rely upon me for that ; unless,” added Henri, who 
feared he might have said too much, “ unless, indeed, I should 


DOUBT. 


4i5 


be overtaken by sleep, which seems more than probable, and 
a far more healthy occupation than that of watching shadows 
and spies.” 

“ Certainly,” said the ensign, laughingly, as he took leave of 
Henri du Bouchage. 

Hardly had he quitted the library than Henri darted into the 
garden. 

“ Oh !” he murmured, “ it is Remy ! it is Remy ! I should 
know him again in the darkness of hell itself.” 

And the young man, as he felt his knees tremble beneath him, 
buried his burning forehead in his cold damp hands. 

“Great Heaven !” he cried, “is not this rather a phantasy of 
my poor fevered brain, and is it not written that in my slumber- 
ing and in my waking moments, day and night, I should ever 
see those two figures who have made so deep and dark a furrow 
in my life ? 

“ Why,” he continued, like a man aware of the need that 
exists of convincing himself, “why, indeed, should Remy be 
here in this chateau, while the Due d J Anjou is here ? What is his 
motive in coming here ? What can the Due d’ Anjou possibly 
have to do with Remy ? And why should he have quitted Diana 
— he, who is her eternal companion ? No ; it is not he.” 

Then, again, a moment afterwards, a conviction, thorough, 
profound, almost instinctive in its nature, seemed to overcome 
all the doubts he had entertained 

“ It is he ! it is he !” he murmured, in utter despair, and lean- 
ing against the wall to save himself from falling. 

As he finished giving utterance to this overpowering, over- 
whelming thought, which seemed to crush all others in his mind, 
the sharp sound of the lock was again heard, and, although the 
sound was almost imperceptible, his over-excited senses detected it 
instantly. An indefinable shudder ran through the young man’s 
w r hole frame ; again he listened with eager attention. So pro- 
found a silence reigned around him on every side that he could 
hear the throbbings of his ow r n heart. A few minutes passed 
away without anything he expected making its appearance. Ill 
default of his eyes, however, his ears told him that some one was 
approaching, for he heard the sound of the gravel under the 
advancing footsteps. Suddenly the straight black line of ti e 
hedge seemed broken ; he imagined he saw upon this dark back- 
ground a group still darker moving along. 

“ It is he returning again,” murmured Henri. “ Is he alone, 
or is some one with him ?” 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


41 6 

The objects advanced from the side where the silver light of 
the moon had illuminated a space of open ground. It was at 
the very moment when, advancing in the opposite direction, the 
man in the overcoat crossed this open space, that Henri fancied 
he recognised Remy. This time Henri observed two shadows 
very distinctly; it was impossible he could be mistaken. A 
death-like chill struck to his heart, and seemed to have turned 
it to marble. 

The two shadows walked quickly along, although with a firm 
step ; the former was dressed in a woollen overcoat, and at the 
appearance of the second apparition, as at that of the first, the 
count fancied he recognised Remy. 

The second, who was completely enveloped in a large man’s 
cloak, seemed to defy every attempt at recognition. 

And yet, beneath that cloak, Henri fancied he could detect 
what no human eye could have possibly seen. 

He could not control a deep bitter groan of despair, and no 
sooner had the two mysterious personages disappeared behind 
the hedge than the young man darted after them, and stealthily 
glided from one group of trees to another, in the wake of those 
whom he was so anxious to discover. 

“ Oh !” he murmured, as he stole along, “ do I not indeed 
deceive myself? Oh ! Heaven, can it really be possible?” 


CHAPTER LXXXVII. 

CERTAINTY. 

Henri glided along the hedge, on the side which was thrown 
into deep shade, taking care to make no noise either on the 
gravel or against the trees. 

Obliged to walk carefully, and while walking to watch care- 
fully over every movement he made, he could not perceive any- 
thing. And yet, by his style, his dress, his walk, he still fancied 
he recognised Remy in the man who wore the overcoat. 

Mere conjectures, more terrifying for him than realities, 
arose in his mind with regard to this man’s companion. 

The road which they were following, and which was bounded 
by a row of elms, terminated in a high hawthorn hedge, which 
separated from the rest of the park the pavilion of" the Due 
d’Anjou, and enveloped it as with a curtain of verdure, in the 
midst of which, as has been already observed, it entirely dis- 
appeared in a remote corner of the grounds of the chateau. 


CERTAINTY. 


4H 

There were several beautiful sheets of water, dark underwood, 
through which winding paths had been cut, and venerable 
trees, over the summits of which the moon was shedding its 
streams of silver light, whilst underneath the gloom was thick, 
dark, and impenetrable. 

As he approached this hedge, Henri felt that his heart was 
on the point of failing him. In fact, to transgress so boldly the 
prince’s orders, and to abandon himself to a course of conduct 
as indiscreet as it was rash, was the act, not of a loyal and 
honourable man, but of a mean and cowardly spy, or of a 
jealous man driven to extremities. But as, while opening the 
gate, which separated the greater from the smaller park, the 
man he followed moved in such a way that his features were 
revealed, and as he perceived that these features were indeed 
those of Remy, the count’s scruples vanished, and he resolutely 
advanced at all hazards. Henri found the gate again closed ; 
he leaped over the railings, and then continued his pursuit of 
the prince’s two strange visitors, who still seemed to be hurry- 
ing onwards. Another cause of terror was soon added; for the 
duke, on hearing the footsteps of Remy and his companion 
upon the gravel walk, made his appearance from the pavilion. 
Henri threw himself behind the largest of the trees, and waited. 

He could not see anything, except that he observed that 
Remy made a very low salutation, that Remy’s companion 
courtesied like a woman, instead of bowing like a man, and 
that the duke, seemingly transported with delight, offered his 
arm to the latter, in the same way as he would have done to a 
woman. Then all three advanced towards the pavilion, dis- 
appeared under the vestibule, and the door closed behind them. 

“ This must end,” said Henri, “ and I must seek a more con- 
venient place, where I can see everything that may pass without 
being seen.” 

He decided in favour of a clump of trees situated between 
the pavilion and the wall, from the centre of which the waters 
of a fountain gushed forth, thus forming an impenetrable place 
of concealment; for it was not likely that in the night-time, 
with the freshness and humidity which would naturally be found 
near this fountain, the prince would seek the vicinity of the 
water and the thickets. Hidden behind the statue with which 
the fountain was ornamented, and standing at his full height 
behind the pedestal, Henri was enabled to see what was taking 
place in the pavilion, the principal window of which was quite 
open before him. 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


418 

As no one could, or rather, as no one would, venture to 
penetrate so far, no precautions had been taken. 

A table was laid, sumptuously served with the richest viands, 
and with rare wines in bottles of costly Venetian glass 

Two seats only at this table seemed to be awaiting two guests. 

The duke approached one of the chairs ; then, leaving the 
arm of Remy’s companion, and pointing to the other seat, he 
seemed to request that the cloak might be thrown aside, as, 
although it might be very serviceable for an evening stroll, it 
became very inconvenient when the object of the stroll was 
attained, and when that object was a supper. 

Thereupon the individual to whom the invitation had been 
addressed threw the cloak upon a chair, and the dazzling blaze 
of the flambeaux lighted up, without a shadow on their loveli- 
ness, the pale and majestically-beautiful features of a woman 
whom the terrified eyes of Henry immediately recognised. It 
was the lady of the mysterious house in the Rue des Augustins, 
the wanderer in Flanders; in one word, it was that Diana whose 
gaze was as mortal as the thrust of a dagger On this occasion 
she wore the apparel of her own sex, and was richly dressed in 
brocaded silk ; diamonds blazed on her neck, in her hair, and 
on her wrists, and thereby made the extreme pallor of her face 
more remarkable than ever, and in the light which shone from 
her eyes, it almost seemed as if the duke had, by the employ- 
ment of some magical means, evoked the ghost of this woman, 
rather than the woman herself. Had it not been for the support 
afforded by the statue round which he had thrown his arms, 
colder even than the marble itself, Henri would have fallen 
backwards headlong into the basin of the fountain 

The duke seemed intoxicated with delight, he fixed his pas- 
sionate gaze upon this beautiful creature, who had seated her- 
self opposite to him, and who hardly touched the dishes which 
had been placed before her. From time to time Francois 
leaned across the table to kiss one of the hands of his silent 
guest, who, as pale as death, seemed as insensible to his kisses 
as if her hand had been sculptured in alabaster, which, for trans- 
parency and perfect whiteness, it so much resembled. From 
time to time Henri started, raised his hand to his forehead, and 
with it wiped away the death-like sweat which rose on it, and 
asked himself : “ Is she alive, or dead?” 

The duke tried his utmost efforts and displayed all his powers 
of eloquence to unbend the rigid beauty of her face. 

Remy, the only attendant, for the duke had sent every one 


CERTAINTY. 


4 1 9 


away, waited on them both, and, occasionally, lightly touching 
his mistress with his elbow as he passed behind her chair, 
seemed to revive her by the contact, and to recall her to life, or 
rather to the position in which she was placed. 

Thereupon, a bright flush spread over her whole face, her 
eyes sparkled, she smiled as if some magician had touched a 
spring unknown to this automatonlike figure, seemingly en- 
dowed with intelligence, and the mechanism of which had drawn 
the lightning glance from her eyes, the glowing flush on her 
cheek, and the sparkling smile to her lips The moment after, 
she again subsided into her calm and statue-like stillness. The 
prince, however, approached her, and by the passionate tone of 
his conversation, seemed as if he had succeeded in warming 
into animation his new conquest Thereupon Diana, who 
occasionally glanced at the face of a magnificent clock sus- 
pended over the prince’s head, against the opposite side of the 
wall to where she was seated, seemed to make an effort over 
herself, and with her lips bedecked with smiles took a more 
active part in the conversation. 

Henri, concealed in his leafy covert, wrung his hands in 
despair, and cursed the whole creation in the utter wretchedness 
of his sore distress It seemed to him monstrous, almost ini- 
quitous, that this woman, so pure and rigidly inflexible, should 
yield herself so unresistingly to the prince, because he was a 
prince, and abandon herself to love because it was offered within 
the precincts of a palace. His horror at Remy was so extreme, 
that he could have slain him without remorse, in order to see 
whether so great a monster had the blood and heart of a man 
in him. In such paroxysms of rage and contempt did Henri 
pass the time during the supper, which to the Due d’Anjou was 
so full of rapture and delight. 

Diana sang. The prince, inflamed by wine, and by. his pas- 
sionate discourse,. rose from the table for the purpose of embrac- 
ing Diana. Every drop of blood seemed to curdle in Henri's 
veins. He put his hand to his side to see if his sword were 
there, and then thrust it into his breast in search of a dagger. 
Diana, with a strange smile, which most assuredly had never, 
until that moment, had its counterpart on any face, stopped the 
duke as he was approaching her. 

“ Will you allow me, monseigneur,” she said, “ before I rise, 
from the table, to share with your royal highness one of those 
tempting-looking peaches.” 

And with these words she stretched out her hand towards a 

27 — 2 


420 THE T0R7Y-E1VE GUAA'DSA/E.V. 

basket of gold filagree work, in which twenty peaches were 
tastefully arranged, and took one. 

Then, taking from her girdle a beautiful little dagger, with a 
silver blade and a handle of malachite, she divided the peach 
into two portions,, and offered one of them to the prince, who 
seized it and carried it eagerly to his lips, as though he would 
thus have kissed Diana’s. 

This impassioned action produced so deep an impression on 
himself, that a cloud seemed to obscure his sight at the very 
moment he bit into the fruit. Diana looked at him with her 
clear steady gaze, and her fixed immovable smile 

Remy, leaning his back against a pillar of carved wood, also 
looked on with a gloomy expression of countenance. 

The prince passed one of his hands across his forehead, wiped 
away the perspiration which had gathered there, and swallowed 
the piece that he had bitten. 

This perspiration was most probably the symptom of a sudden 
indisposition; for while Diana ate the other half of the peach, 
the prince let fall on his plate what remained of the portion he 
had taken, and with difficulty rising from his seat, seemed to 
invite his beautiful companion to accompany him into the gar- 
den in order to enjoy the cool night air. 

Diana rose, and without pronouncing a single word, took the 
duke’s arm, which he offered her 

Remy gazed after them, particularly after the prince, whom 
the air seemed completely to revive 

As she walked along, Diana wiped the small blade of her 
knife on a handkerchief embroidered with gold, and restored 
rt to its shagreen sheath. 

In this manner they approached the clump of trees w'here 
Henri was concealed. 

The prince, with a passionate gesture, pressed his companions 
arm against his heart. 

“ I feel better,” he said, “and yet I hardly know what heavy 
weight seems to press down on my brain ; I love too deeply, 
madame, I perceive.” 

Diana plucked several sprigs of jasmine and of clematis, and 
tw r o beautiful roses which bordered the whole of one side of 
the pedestal of the statue behind which Henri was shrinking 
terrified. 

“ What are you doing, madame ?” inquired the prince. 

“I have always understood, monseigneur,” she said, “that 
the periume of flowers was the best remedy for attacks of 


CERTAIN TV. 


4^1 

giddiness ; I am gathering a bouquet with the hope that this 
bouquet, if presented by me, will have the magical influence 
which I wish it to possess ” 

But, while she was arranging the flowers, she let a rose fall 
from her hand, which the prince eagerly hastened to pick up. 

The movement that Francois made was rapid, but not so rapid, 
however, but that it gave Diana sufficient time to pour upon the 
other rose a few drops of a liquid contained in a small gold 
bottle which she drew from her bosom. 

She then took from his hand the rose which the prince had 
picked up, and placing it in her girdle, said, — • 

“That one is for me, let us change/’ 

And in exchange for the rose which she received from the 
prince’s hand, she held out the bouquet to him. 

The prince seized it eagerly, inhaled its perfume with delight, 
and passed his arm around Diana’s waist But this latter action, 
in all probability, completely overwhelmed the already troubled 
senses of the prince, for his knees trembled under him, and he 
was obliged to seat himself on a bank of green turf, beside which 
he happened to be standing. 

Henri did not lose sight of these two persons, and yet he had 
a look for Remy also, who in the pavilion awaited the termina- 
tion of this scene, or rather seemed to devour every minute in- 
cident of it. 

When he saw the prince totter, he advanced towards the 
threshold of the pavilion. Diana, on her side, perceiving 
Francois stagger, sat herself down beside him on the bank. 

The giddiness from which Francois suffered continued on 
this occasion longer than on the former; the prince’s head 
was resting on his chest. He seemed to have lost all connec- 
tion in his ideas, and almost the perception of hi-s own exist- 
ence ; and yet the convulsive movement of his fingers on Diana’s 
hand seemed to indicate that he was instinctively pursuing his 
wild dream of love. At last he slowly raised his head, and his 
lips being almost on a level with Diana’s face, he made an effort 
to touch those of his lovely guest, but as if unobservant of the 
movement, she rose from her seat. 

“ You are suffering, monseigneur,” she said ; “ it would be 
better if we were to go in.” 

“ Oh ! yes, let us go in,” exclaimed the prince in a transport 
of joy. 

And he arose, staggering, to his feet ; then, instead of Diana 
leaning on his arm. it was he who leaned on Diana’s arm ; and 


422 


THE FORTY -FIVE GUARDSMEN . 


thanks to this support, walking with less difficulty, he seemed 
to forget fever and giddiness too, for suddenly drawing himself 
up, he, in an unexpected manner, pressed his lips on her neck. 
She started as if, instead of a kiss, she had received the im- 
pression of a red hot iron. 

“ Remy !” she exclaimed, “ a flambeau, a flambeau !” 

Remy immediately returned to the salle-a-manger, and 
lighted, by the candle on the table, a flambeau which he took 
from a small round table, and then, hurrying to the entrance to 
the pavilion, and holding the torch in his hand, he cried out : 

“ Here is one, madame.” 

“ Where is your highness going to ?” inquired Diana, seizing 
hold of the flambeau and turning her head aside. 

“ Oh ! we will return to my own room., and you will lead me, 

I venture to hope, madame?’ replied the prince, in a frenzy of 
passion. 

“ Willingly, monseigneur,” replied Diana, and she raised the 
torch in the air, and walked before the prince 

Remy opened, at the end of the pavilion, a window through 
which the fresh air rushed inwards, in such a manner that the 
flame and smoke of the flambeau, which Diana held, were car 
ried back towards Francis' face, which happened to be in the 
very current of the air The two lovers, as Henri considered 
them to be. proceeded in this manner, first crossing a gallery to 
the duke s own room, and disappeared behind the fleur de-lized 
hangings, which served the purpose of a portiere. 

Henri had observed everything that had passed with increas- 
ing fury, and yet this fury was such that it almost deprived him 
of life It seemed as if he had no strength left except to cuise 
the fate which had imposed so cruel a trial upon him. He had 
quitted his place of concealment, and in utter despair, his arms 
hanging by his side, and with a haggard gaze, he was on the 
point of returning, with life ebbing fast, to his apartment in the 
chateau, when suddenly the hangings behind which he had seen 
Diana and the prince disappear were thrown aside, and Diana 
herself rushed into the supper-room, and seized hold of Remy, 
who, standing motionless and erect, seemed only to be waiting 
her return. 

“ Quick ! quick !” she said to him ; “ all is finished.” 

And they both darted into the garden as if they had been 
drunk, or mad, or raging with passion. 

No sooner did Henri observe them, however, than he seemed 
to have recovered all his strength ; he hastened to place him- 


CERTAINTY. 


423 


self in their way, and they came upon him suddenly in the 
middle of the path, standing erect, his arms ciosscd. and more 
terrible in his silence than any one could ever hove been in 
his loudest menaces. Henri’s feelings had indeed arrived at 
such a pitch of exasperation, that he would readily have slain 
any man who would have ventured to maintain that women 
were not monsters sent from hell to corrupt the world. He 
seized Diana by the arm, and stopped her suddenly, notwith- 
standing the cry of terror which she uttered, and notwithstand- 
ing the dagger which Remy put to his breast, and which even 
grazed his flesh. 

“ Oh ! doubtless you do not recognise me.” he said furi- 
ously, gnashing his teeth ; “I am that simple-hearted young 
man who loved you, and whose love you would not return, 
because for you there was no future, but merely the past. Ah ! 
beautiful hypocrite that you are, and you, foul liar, I know 
you at last — I know and curse you. To the one I say, I de- 
spise and contemn you ; to the other, I shrink from you with 
horror.” 

“ Make way !” cried Remy, in a strangled voice ; “ make way, 
young fool, or if not ” 

“ Be it so,” replied Henri ; “ finish your work, and slay my 
body, wretch, since you have already destroyed my soul. ; ‘ 

“ Silence !” muttered Remy, furiously, pressing the blade of 
his dagger more and more against Henri’s breast. 

Diana, however, violently pushed Remy aside, and seizing 
Du Bouchage by the arm, she drew him straight before her. 
She was lividly pale ; her beautiful hair streamed over her 
shoulders ; the contact of the hand on Henri’s wrist seemed to 
the latter cold and damp as the dews of death. 

“Monsieur,” she said, “do not rashly judge of matters of 
which Heaven alone can judge. I am Diana de Meridor, the 
mistress of Monsieur de Bussy, whom the Due d’Anjou miser- 
ably allowed to perish when he could have saved him. Eight 
days since Remy slew Aurilly, the duke’s accomplice, and the 
prince himself I have just poisoned with a peach, a bouquet, 
and a torch. Move aside, monsieur — move aside, I say, for 
Diana de Meridor, who is on her way to the Convent des Hos- 
pital ieres.” 

With these words, and letting Henri’s arm fall, she took hold 
of that of Remy, as he waited by her side. 

Henri fell on his knees, following the retreating figures of the 
two assassins, who disappeared behind the thick copse, as though 


424 


THE FORTY- FIVE GUARDSMEN 


it had been a vision from hell. It was not till fully an hour 
afterwards that Du Bouchage, overpowered with fatigue and 
overwhelmed with terror, with his brain on fire, was able to 
summon sufficient strength to drag himself to his apartment, 
nor was it until after he had made the attempt nearly a dozen 
times that he succeeded in cscalading the window. He walked 
to and fro in his room several times, and then staggered towards 
the bed, on which he threw himself. Every one was sleeping 
quietly in the chateau. 


CHAPTER LXXXVIII. 

FATALITY. 

The next morning, about nine o’clock, the beautiful rays of the 
sun were glistening like gold on the gravelled walks of Chateau- 
Thierry. Numerous gangs of workmen, who had the previous 
evening been directed to be in attendance, had been actively 
at work from daybreak upon the preparations in the park, as 
well as in the decoration of the apartments destined to receive 
the king, whose arrival was momentarily expected. As yet 
nothing was stirring in the pavilion where the duke reposed, 
for he had on the previous evening forbidden his two old 
servants to awaken him. They were to wait until he summoned 
them. Towards half-past nine two couriers rode at full speed 
into the town, announcing his majesty’s near arrival. The civic 
authorities, the governor, and the garrison formed themselves 
in ranks on either side of the road, leaving a passage for the 
royal procession. At ten o’clock the king appeared at the foot 
of the hill ; he had mounted his horse when they had taken 
their last relays. He never neglected an opportunity of doing 
so, especially when entering towns, as he rode admirably. The 
queen-mother followed him in a litter ; fifty gentlemen belong* 
ing to the court, richly clad and admirably mounted, followed 
in their suite. A company of the guards, followed by Crillon 
himself, a hundred and twenty of the Swiss, and as many of 
the Scotch guards, commanded by Larchant, and all the members 
of the royal household who accompanied the king in his excur- 
sions, mules, coffers, and domestic servants, formed a numerous 
army, the files of which followed the windings of the road lead- 
ing from the river to the summit of the hill. Lastly, the cortege 
entered the town amidst the ringing of the church bells, the 
roar of cannon, and bursts of music. The acclamations of the 
inhabitants were enthusiastic ; for a visit from the king was of 


FATALITY. 


*25 

ruch rare occurrence at that time that, seen thus closely, he 
seemed to be a living embodiment of divine right. The king, 
as he progressed through the crowd, looked on all sides for his 
brother, but in vain. He only found Henri du Bouchage wait- 
ing for him at the gate of the chateau. 

When once within the chateau, Henry III. inquired after the 
health of the Due d' Anjou from the officer who had assumed 
the high distinction of receiving the king. 

“ Sire,” replied the latter, “ his highness, during the last few 
days, has been residing in the pavilion in the park, and we have 
not yet seen him this morning. It is most probable, however, 
that os he was well yesterday, he is well also to-day.” 

“ This pavilion is in a very retired part of the park, it seems,” 
said Henri, in a tone of displeasure, “ since the sound of the 
cannon does not seem to have been heard.” 

“ Sire,” one of the duke’s two aged attendants ventured to 
remark, “ his highness did not, perhaps, expect your majesty so 
soon.” 

“Old fool,” growled Henri, “ do you think, then, that a king 
presents himself in this way at other people’s residences without 
informing them of it? Monsieur le Due d’ Anjou has been 
aware of my intended arrival since yesterday.” 

And then, afraid of casting a gloom over those around him 
by a grave or sullen countenance, Henri, who wished to appear 
gentle and amiable at the expense of his brother Francis, ex- 
claimed, “ Well, then, since he has not come to meet us, we wi.l 
go to meet him.” 

“ Show us the way there,” said Catherine, from the litter. 

All the escort followed the road leading to the old park. 

At the very moment that the guards, who were in advance, 
approached the hedge, a shrill and piercing cry rent the air. 

“ What is that ?” said the king, turning towards his mother. 

“ Great Heaven !” murmured Catherine, endeavouring to 
read the faces of those around her, “ it sounded like a cry of 
distress or despair.” 

“ My prince ! my poor master !” cried Francis’ other aged 
attendant, appearing at the window, and exhibiting signs of the 
most passionate grief. 

Every one hastened towards the pavilion, the king himself 
being hurried along with the others. He arrived at the very 
moment when they were raising from the floor the Due d’Anjou’s 
body, which his valet- de-cham bre, having entered without autho- 
rity, in order to announce the king’s arrival, had just perceived 


426 


THE FORTY FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


lying on the carpet of the bedroom. The prince was cold, 
stiff', and perfectly inanimate, and it was only by a strange 
movement of the eyelids and a nervous contraction of the lips 
that ft could be observed he was still alive The king paused 
at the threshold of the door, and those behind him followed 
his example. 

“ This is an ugly omen,” he murmured. 

“ Do not enter, my son, I implore you,” said Catherine to 
him. 

“ Poor Francis !*' said Henri, delighted at being sent away, 
and thus being spared the spectacle of this agonizing scene. 

The crowd, too, followed the king as he withdrew 

“ Strange ! strange !” murmured Catherine, kneeling down by 
the side of the prince, or rather of the corpse, no one being in 
the room with her but the two old servants ; and while the 
messengers were despatched in every quarter of the town to find 
the prince’s physician, and while a courier galloped off to Paris 
in order to hasten the attendance of the king's physicians, who 
had remained at Meaux with the queen, Catherine, with less 
knowledge, very probably, but not with less perspicacity than 
Miron himself could possibly have shown, examined the diag- 
nostics of that singular malady which had struck down her son 
so suddenly. 

Her experience was by no means indifferent , in the first 
place, therefore, she interrogated calmly, and without confusing 
them, the two attendants, who were tearing their hair and 
wringing their hands in the wildest despair. 

Both of them replied that the prince had returned on the pre- 
vious evening about nightfall, after having been disturbed at an 
inconvenient hour by Monsieur du Bouchage, who hdft arrived 
with a message from the king. 

They then added that when the audience had terminated, 
which had been held in the chateau itself, the prince had ordered 
supper to be prepared, and had desired that no one should 
venture to approach the pavilion without being summoned ; 
and lastly, that he had given the strictest injunctions not to be 
awakened in the morning, and that no one should enter with- 
out a positive summons. 

“ He probably expected a visit from a lady ?” observed the 
queen-mother, inquiringly. 

“We think so, madame,” replied the valet respectfully, “but 
we could not discreetly assure ourselves of the fact.” 


FA TALI I Y. 


427 

“ But in removing the things from the table, you must have 
seen whether my son had supped alone ?” 

“ We have not yet removed the things, madame, since the 
orders of monseigneur were that no one should enter the 
pavilion ” 

“Very good,” said Catherine ; “no one, therefore, has been 
here ?” 

“No one, madame.” 

“You may go.” 

And Catherine was now left quite alone in the room. Leav- 
ing the prince lying on the bed where he had been placed, she 
immediately commenced the minutest investigation of each 
symptom or of each of the traces to which her attention was 
directed, as the result of her suspicions or apprehensions. 

She had remarked that Francis’ forehead was stained or dyed 
of a bistre colour, his eyes were bloodshot and encircled with 
blue lines, his lips marked with furrows, like the impression 
which burning sulphur leaves on living flesh. 

She observed the same sign upon his nostrils and upon the 
sides of the nose. 

“ Now let me look carefully,” she said, gazing about her on 
every side. 

The first thing she remarked was the candlestick in which 
the flambeau which Remy had lighted the previous evening had 
burnt away. 

“ This candle has burnt for a length of time,” she said, “ and 
shows that Francois was a long time in this room. Ah ! here is 
a bouquet lying on the carpet.” 

Catherine picked it up eagerly, and then, remarking that all 
its flowers were still fresh, with the exception of a rose, which 
was blackened and dried up : 

“ What does this mean ?” she said ; “ what has been poured 
on the leaves of this flower ? If I am not mistaken, I know a 
liquid which withers roses in this manner.” 

She threw aside the bouquet, shuddering as she did so. 

“ That explains to me the state of the nostrils and the 
manner in which the flesh of the face is affected ; but the lips ?” 

Catherine ran to the dining-room. The valets had spoken 
the truth, for there was nothing to indicate that anything on the 
table had been touched since the previous evening’s repast had 
been finished. 

Upon the edge of the table lay the ha If of peach, -in which 
the impression of a row of teeth was still visible. Catherine’s 


428 


THE FORTY- FIVE GUARDS MEET. 


attention was drawn to this in a particular manner, for the fruit, 
usually of a rich crimson near the core, had become as black 
as the rose, and was discoloured by violet and brown spots. 
The corrosive action was more especially visible upon the part 
which had been cut, and particularly so where the knife must 
have passed. 

“This explains the state of the lips,” she said; “but Francois 
had only bitten one piece out of this peach. He did not keep 
the bouquet long in his hand, for the flowers are still fresh ; 
the evil may yet be repaired, for the poison cannot have pene- 
trated very deeply. 

“ And yet, if the evil be merely superficial, why should this 
paralysis of the senses be so complete, and why indeed should 
the decomposition of the flesh have made so much progress ? 
There must be more that I have not seen.” 

And as she spoke Catherine again looked all round her, and 
observed, hanging by a silver chain to its pole, the red and blue 
parrot to which Francois was so attached. 

The bird was dead, stiff, and the feathers of its wings rough 
and erect. 

Catherine again looked closely and attentively at the torch 
which she had once before already narrowly inspected, to satisfy 
herself that, by its having burnt out completely, the prince had 
returned early in the evening. 

“ The smoke,” said Catherine to herself ; “ the smoke ! the 
wick of that torch was poisoned ; my son is a dead man.” 

She called out immediately, and the chamber was in a 
minute filled with attendants and officers of the household. 

* Miron, Miron !” cried some of them. 

“ A priest !” exclaimed the others. 

But Catherine had, in the meantime, placed to the lips of 
Francois one o-f the small bottles which she always carried in 
her alms-bag, and narrowly watched her son’s features to ob- 
serve the effect of the antidote she applied. 

The duke immediately opened his eyes and mouth, but no 
glance of intelligence gleamed in his eyes, no voice or sound 
escaped from his lips. 

Catherine, in sad and gloomy silence, quitted the apartment, 
beckoning to the two attendants to follow her, before they had 
as yet had an opportunity of communicating with anyone. 

She then led them into another chamber, where she sat down, 
fixing her eyes closely and watchfully on their faces. 

“ Monsieur le Due d’Anjou,” she said, “has been poisoned 


FA TAL1TY. 


425 


some time during his supper last evening ; and it was you who 
served the supper ” 

At these words the two men turned as pale as death. 

“Torture us, kill us, if you will,” they said; “but do not 
accuse us.” 

“ Fools that you are ; do you suppose that if I suspected you, 
that would have already been done ? You have not yourselves, 
I know, assassinated your master, but others have killed him ; 
and I must know who the murderers are. Who has entered 
the pavilion ?” 

“ An old man, wretchedly clothed, whom monseigneur has 
seen during the last two days.” 

“ But, the woman 

“We have not seen her — what woman does your majesty 
mean ?” 

“ A woman has been here, who made a bouquet ” 

The two attendants looked at each other with an expression 
of such simple surprise that Catherine perceived, by this glance 
alone, how perfectly innocent they were. 

“ Let the governor of the town and the governor of Che 
chateau be sent for,” she said. 

The two valets hurried to the door. 

“ One moment !” exclaimed Catherine, fixing them in their 
places by this single word as they approached the threshold. 
“ You only and myself are aware of what I have just told you ; 
I shall not breathe a word about it ; if anyone learns it, there* 
fore, it will be from or through one of you ; on that very day both 
your lives shall be forfeited. Now, go !” 

Catherine interrogated the two governors with more reserve. 
She told them that the duke had received from some person or 
persons a distressing intelligence which had deeply affected him; 
that that alone was the cause of his illness, and that if the 
duke had an opportunity of putting a few further questions to the 
persons again, he would in all probability soon recover from the 
alarm into which he had been thrown. 

The governors instituted the minutest search in the town, 
the park, the environs, but no one knew what had become 
of Remy and Diana. 

Henri alone knew the secret, and there was no danger of his 
betraying it. 

Throughout the whole day, the terrible news, commented 
upon, exaggerated, and mutilated, circulated through Chateau- 
Thierry and the province ; every one explained, according to 


43 ° 


THE FORTY -FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


his own individual character ancf disposition, the accident which 
had befallen the duke. 

But no one, except Catherine and Du Bouchage, ventured 
to acknowledge that the chance of saving the duke’s life was 
hopeless. 

The unhappy prince did not recover either his voice or his 
senses, or rather, he ceased to give any sign of intelligence. 

The king, who was immediately beset with the gloomiest 
fancies, which he dreaded more than anything, would very 
willingly have returned to Paris; but the queen-mother op- 
posed his departure, and the court was obliged to remain at 
the chateau. 

Physicians arrived in crowds ; Miron alone guessed the cause 
of the illness, and formed an opinion upon its serious nature 
and extent ; but he was too good a courtier to confess the truth, ' 
especially after he had consulted Catherine’s looks. 

He was questioned on all sides, and he replied that Mon- 
sieur k Due d'Anjou must certainly have suffered from some 
seriously-disturbing cause, and had been subjected to some 
v-iolent mental shock. 

In this way he avoided compromising himself, therefore, which 
is a very difficult matter in such a case. 

When Henri III. required him to answer affirmatively or 
negatively to his question, “ Whether the duke would live ?” 
he replied, 

“ I will answer your majesty in three days.” 

“ And when will you tell me ?” said Catherine, in a low 
voice. 

“You, madame, are very different: I answer you unhesi- 
tatingly.” 

“ Well ?” 

“ Your majesty has but to interrogate me.” 

“ On what day will my son die, Miron ?” 

“ To-morrow evening, madame.” 

“ So soon ?” 

“ Ah ! madame,” murmured the physician, “ the dose was by 
no means a slight one.” 

Catherine placed one of her fingers on her lips, looked at 
the dying man, and repeated in an undertone this sinister 
word. “ Fatality 1” 


LES H0SP1TALIERES. 


43 1 


CHAPTER LXXXIX. 

LES HOSPITALIERES. 

The count had passed a terrible night, in a state ooi dering on 
delirium and verging on death. 

Faithful, however, to his duty, as soon as he had neard the 
king’s arrival announced, he rose and received him at the gate, 
as we have described ; but no sooner had he presented his 
homage to his majesty, saluted respectfully the queen mother, 
and pressed the admiral’s hand, than he shut himself up in his 
own Toom, not to die, but to carry determinedly into execution 
his long cherished project, which nothing could any longer in- 
terfere with. 

Towards eleven o’clock in the morning, therefore — that is to 
say, as .soon as, immediately after the terrible news had circu- 
lated thttt the Due d'Anjou’s life was in imminent danger, every 
one had dispersed, leaving the king completely bewildered by 
this fresh event — Henri went and knocked at his brothers door, 
who, having passed a part of the previous night travelling, had 
just retired to his ov\n room. 

“ Ah ! is that you ?” asked Joyeuse, half-asleep ; “ what is the 
matter?’' 

“ I have come to bid you farewell, my brother,” replied 
Henri. 

“ Farewell ! What do you mean ? Are you going away ?” 

“ Yes, I am going away, brother, and nothing need keep me 
here any longer, I presume.” 

“ Why nothing ?” 

“ Of course, since the fetes at which you wished me to be pre- 
sent will not take place, I may now consider myself as freed 
from my promise.’’ 

“ You are mistaken, Henri,” replied the grand-admiral ; “ I 
have no greater reason for permitting you to leave to-day than 
I had yesterday.” 

“ I regret that it is so ; but in that case, for the first time in 
my life, I shall have the misfortune to disobey your orders, and 
to fail in the respect I owe you ; for from this very moment I 
declare to you, Anne, that nothing shall restrain me any longer 
from taking religious vows.” 

“ But the dispensation which is expected from Rome ?” 

“ I can await it in a convent.” 

“ You must positively be mad to think of such a thing,” ex- 


432 THE FOR 7 V FI l T E G UA RDSMEM 

claimed Joyeuse, as he rose, with stupefaction depicted on his 
countenance. 

“ On the contrary, my dear and honoured brother, I am the 
wisest of you all, for I alone know what I am about.” 

“ Henri, you promised us a month.” 

“ Impossible.” 

“ A week, then, longer.” 

“ Not an hour ” 

“ You are suffering so much, then, poor boy ?” 

“ On the contrary, I have ceased to suffer, and that is why 
the evil is without a remedy. ’ 

“ But, at all events, this woman is not made of bron :e ; her 
feelings can be worked upon I will undertake to persuade her.” 

“You cannot do impossibilities, Anne, besides, even were 
she to allow herself to be persuaded now, it is I who could no 
longer consent to love her.” 

“ Well, that is quite another matter.” 

“ Such is the case, however, my brother.” 

“ What ! if she were now willing, would you be indifferent ? 
Why, this* is sheer madness.” 

“ Oh ! no ! no !” exclaimed Henri, with a shudder of horror, 
“ nothing can any longer exist between that women and my- 
self.” 

“What does this mean?” inquired Joyeuse, with marked sur- 
prise ; “ and who can this woman really be ? Come, tell fne, 
Henri ; you know very well that we have never had any secrets 
from each other.” 

Henri trembled lest he had said too much, and that, in 
yielding to the feeling which he had just exhibited, he had 
opened a channel by means of which his brother would be able 
to penetrate the terrible secret which he kept imprisoned in his 
breast. He therefore fell into an opposite 'extreme ; and, as it 
happens in such cases, and in order to recall the imprudent 
words which had escaped him, he pronounced others which 
were more imprudent still 

“ Do not press me further,” he said ; “ this woman will never 
be mine, since she belongs to heaven.” 

“ Folly ! — mere idle tales ! This woman a nun ! She has 
deceived you.” 

“No, no, this woman has not spoken falsely ; she is now an 
Hospitaliere. Do not let us speak any further of her, but 
rather let us respect those who throw themselves at the feet of 
Heaven.” 


LES UOsr-TALlERES. 433 

Anne had sufficient power over himself not to show the de- 
light this revelation gave him. 

He continued : “ This is something new, for you have never 
spoken to me about it.” 

“ It is indeed quite new, for she has only recently taken the 
veil ; but I am sure that her resolution, like my own, is irrevo- 
cable. Do not therefore seek to detain me any longer, but em- 
brace me, as you love me. Permit me to thank you for all your 
kindness, for all your patience, and for your unceasing affection 
for a poor heart-broken man, and farewell !” 

Joyeuse looked his brother full and steadily in the face ; he 
looked at him like one whose feelings had overcome him, and 
who relied upon a display of feeling to work upon the feelings 
of others. But Henri remained unmoved at this exhibition of 
emotion on his brother’s part, and replied in no other way but 
by the same mournful smile. 

Joyeuse embraced his brother, and allowed him to depart. 

“ Go,” he said to himself, “ all is not yet finished, and, how- 
ever great your hurry may be, I shall not be long before I shall 
have overtaken you.” 

He went to the king, who was taking his breakfast in bed, 
with Chicot sitting by his side. 

“ Good day ! good day !” said the king to Joyeuse. “ I am 
very glad to see you, Anne ; I was afraid you would lie in bed 
all day, you indolent fellow. How is my brother ?” 

“ Alas ! sire, I do not know ; I am come to speak to you 
about mine.” 

“ Which one ?” 

“ Henri.” 

“ Does he still wish to become a monk ?” 

“ More so than ever.” 

“ And will he take the vows ?” 

“ Yes, sire.” 

“ He is quite right, too.” 

“ How so, sire ?” 

“ Because men go straight to heaven that way.” 

“ Oh !” said Chicot to the king, “ men go much faster still by 
the way your brother is taking.” 

“ Will your majesty permit me to ask a question ?” 

“ Twenty, Joyeuse, twenty. I am as melancholy as I can 
possibly be at Chateau-Thierry, and your questions will distract 
my attention a little.” 


28 


434 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


“ You know all the religious houses in the kingdom, sire, I 
believe ?” 

“ As well as I do a coat of arms.” 

“Is there one which goes by the name of Les Hospitalieres, 
sire ?” 

“ It is a very small, highly distinguished, excessively strict, 
and severe order, composed of twenty ladies, canonesses of 
Saint Joseph.” “ Do they take the vows there?” 

“ Yes, as a matter of favour, and upon a presentation from the 
Queen.” 

“ Should I be indiscreet if I were to ask your majesty where 
this order is situated ?” 

“ Not at all ; it is situated in the Rue de Chevet Saint- 
Laudry, in the Cite, behind Le Cloitre Notre Dame.” 

“ At Paris?” “ Yes.” 

“ Thank you, sire.” 

“But what the devil do you ask me that for? Has your 
brother changed his mind, and, instead of turning a Capuchin 
friar, does he now wish to become one of the Hospitalieres ?” 

“ No, sire, I should not think he would be so mad, after what 
your majesty has done me the honour to tell me ; but I suspect 
he has had his head turned by some one belonging to that order, 
and I should consequently like to discover who this person is, 
and speak to her.” 

“ Par la mordieu !” said the king, with a self-satisfied expres- 
sion, “some seven years ago I knew the superior of that con- 
vent, who was an exceedingly beautiful woman.” 

“ Well, sire, it may perhaps be the very one.” 

“I cannot say; since that time, I too, Joyeuse, have assumed 
religious vows myself, or nearly so, indeed.” 

“ Sire,” said Joyeuse, “ I entreat you to give me, at any rate, a 
letter to this lady, and my leave of absence for a couple of days ” 

“ You are going to leave me !” exclaimed the king ; “ to leave 

me all alone here ?” “ Oh ! ungrateful king,” said Chicot, 

shrugging his shoulders, “ am I not here ?” 

“ My letter, if you please, sire,” said Joyeuse. 

The king sighed, but wrote it, notwithstanding. 

“ But you cannot have anything to do at Paris ?” said Henri, 
handing the note to Joyeuse. 

“ I beg your pardon, sire, I ought to escort, or, at least, to 
watch over, my brothers.” 

“ You are right ; away with you, but return as quickly as 
you can.” 


L ES 1 1 OS PI TA L IE RES. 


435 


Joyeuse did not wait for this permission to be repeated; he 
quietly ordered his horses, and having satisfied himself that 
Henri had already set off, galloped all the way until he reached 
his destination. 

Without even changing his dress, the young man went straight 
to the Rue de Chevet Saint- Laudry. At the end of this street was 
the Rue d'Enfer, and parallel with it the Rue des Marmouzets. 

A dark and venerable -looking house, behind whose walls the 
lofty summits of a few trees could be distinguished, the windows 
of which were few, bad, barred, and a wicket at the side, com- 
pleted the exterior appearance of the Convent des Hospitalieres. 

Upon the keystone of the arch of the porch an artisan had 
•rudely engraved these Latin words, with a chisel : — 

MATRON jE HOSPITES. 

Time had partially destroyed both the inscription and the stone. 

Joyeuse knocked at the wicket, and had his horses led away 
to the Rue des Marmouzets, fearing that their presence in the 
street might attract too much attention. 

Then, knocking at the entrance gate, he said, “ Will you be 
good enough to go and inform madame la superieure that Mon- 
sieur le Due de Joyeuse, Grand Amiral de P rance, is desirous of 
speaking to her on behalf of the king.” 

The face of the nun who had made her appearance belrind 
the gate blushed beneath her veil, and she shut the gate. 

Five minutes afterwards a door was opened, and Joyeuse en- 
tered a room set apart for the reception of visitors. A beautiful 
woman, of lofty stature, made Joyeuse a profound reverence, 
which the admiral returned gracefully and respectfully. 

“ Madame,” said he, “ the king is aware that you are about 
to admit, or that you have already admitted, among the number 
of the inmates here, a person with whom 1 require to speak. 
Will you be good enough to place me in communication with 
that person ?” 

“ Will you tell me the name of the lady you wish to see, 
monsieur ?” 

“I am not aware of it.” 

“ In that case, then, how can I possibly accede to your re- 
quest ?” 

“ Nothing is easier. Whom have you admitted during the 
last month ?” 

“ You either tell me too precisely, or with not sufficient pre- 
cision, who this person is,” said the superior, “ and I am unable 
comply with your wish.” 


43 ^ 


THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


“ Why so ?” 

“ Because, during the last month I have received no one here 
until this morning.” 

“ This morning ?” 

“Yes, monsieur le due, and you can understand that your 
own arrival, two hours after hers, has too much the appearance of 
a pursuit to enable me to grant you permission to speak to her.” 

“ I implore you, madame.” 

“ Impossible, monsieur.” 

“ Will you merely let me see this lady ?” 

“ Impossible, I repeat. Although your name was sufficient 
for the doors of this house to be thrown open before you, yet 
in order to speak to any one here, except indeed to myself, a 
written order from the king is necessary.” 

“ Here is the order you require, madame,” replied Joyeuse, 
producing the letter that Henri had signed. 

The superior read it and bowed. 

“ His majesty’s will shall be obeyed,” she said, “even when 
it is contrary to the will of Heaven.” 

And she advanced towards the courtyard of the convent. 

“You now perceive, madame,” said Joyeuse, courteously 
stopping her, “ that I have right on my side ; but I fear I may 
be under a mistake, and therefore may be abusing the permis- 
sion I have received from the king. Perhaps the lady may not 
be the one I am in search of ; will you be kind enough to tell 
me how she came here, why she came, and by whom she was 
accompanied ?” 

“ All that is useless, monsieur le due,” replied the superior, 
“ you are under no misapprehension for the lady, who arrived 
only this morning, after having been expected for the last fifteen 
days; this lady, I say, who was recommended by one whopossesses 
the greatest authority over me, is indeed the very person with 
whom Monsieur le Due de Joyeuse must wish to speak.” 

With these words the superior made another low courtesy to 
the duke and disappeared. 

Ten minutes afterwards she returned, accompanied by an hos- 
pitaliere, whose veil completely covered her face. It was Diana, 
who had already assumed the dress of the order. 

The duke thanked the superior, offered a chair to her com- 
panion, himself sat down, and the superior quitted the room, 
closing with her own hands the doors of the deserted and 
gloomy-looking apartment. 

“ Madame,” said Joyeuse, without any preface, “you are the 


EES HOSE 1 TA HE RES. 


437 


lady of the Rue des Augustins ; that mysterious person with 
whom my brother, Monsieur le Comte du Bouchage, is so pas- 
sionately and madly in love.” 

The hospitaliere bowed her head in reply, but did not open 
her lips. 

This affectation appeared to Joyeuse almost like an act of 
rudeness ; he was already very indifferently disposed to his com- 
panion, and continued : 

“ You cannot have supposed, madame, that it is sufficient to 
be beautiful, or to appear beautiful ; to have no heart lying 
hidden beneath that beauty, to inspire a wretched and despair- 
ing passion in the heart and mind of a young man of my name, 
and then one day calmly to tell him, ‘So much the worse for you 
if you possess a heart. I have none ; nor do I wish for any.’ ” 

“ That was not my reply, monsieur, and you have been in- 
correctly informed,” said the hospitaliere, in so noble and 
touching a tone of voice, that Joyeuse’s anger was in a moment 
subdued. 

“The actual words are immaterial, madame, when their 
sense has been conveyed. You have rejected my brother, and 
have reduced him to despair.” 

“ Innocently, monsieur : for I have always endeavoured to 
keep Monsieur du Bouchage at a distance.” 

“That is termed the art of coquetry, madame; and the re- 
sult proves the fault.” 

“No one has the right to accuse me, monsieur ; I am guilty 
of nothing. Your feelings of irritation are aroused against 
me ; I shall say no more ” 

“Oh, oh !” said Joyeuse, gradually working himself into a 
passion, “ you have been the ruin of my brother, and you fancy 
you can justify yourself with this irritating majesty of demea- 
nour. No, no ! the steps I have taken must show you what 
my intentions are. I am serious, I assure you, and you see by 
the trembling of my hands and lips that you will need s-ome 
good arguments to move me.” 

The hospitaliere rose. 

“ If you come here to insult a woman,” she said, with the 
same calm self-possession, “ insult me, monsieur ; if, however, 
you have come to induce me to change my opinion, you are 
wasting your time, and can withdraw.” 

“Ah! you are no human creature !” exclaimed Joyeuse, ex- 
asperated. “ You are possessed by an evil spirit.” 

“ I have answered already ; I will reply no further. Since 


433 


THE FORTY FIVE GUARDSMEN". 


that is not sufficient, I shall withdraw.” And the nospitalibre 
advanced towards the door. Joyeuse stopped her. 

“ One moment ! I have sought you for too long a period to 
allow you to leave me in this manner ; and, since I have suc- 
ceeded in meeting with you — since your insensibility has con- 
firmed me in the idea which had already occurred to me, that 
you are possessed by the foul fiend himself, sent hither by the 
enemy of mankind to destroy my brother — I wish to see that 
face whereon the bottomless pit has written its blackest traces ; 

I wish to behold the fire of that fatal gaze which bewilders 
men’s minds. Avaunt thee, Satan !” 

And Joyeuse, making the sign of the cross with one hand, 
as if he were exorcising her, with the other tore aside the veil 
which covered the face of the hospitaliere ; the latter, silent 
and impassible, free from anger or ill-feeling, fixed her sweet 
and gentle gaze upon him who had so cruelly outraged her, and 
said : “ Oh ! monsieur le due, what you ha^'e just done is un- 
worthy a gentleman.” 

Joyeuse’s heart was smitten by her reply. 

“ Oh ! madame,” he murmured, after a long silence, “ you 
are indeed beautiful, and truly must Henri have loved you. 
Surely Heaven can only have bestowed upon you loveliness 
such as you possess to cast it like perfume upon an existence 
devoted to your own.” 

“Monsieur, have you not conversed with your brother? or, 
if you have done so, he cannot have thought it expedient to 
make you his confidant ; had not that been the case, he would 
have told you that I have done what you say — I have loved ; 
I shall never love again; I have lived and must die.” 

Joyeuse had never taken his eyes from Diana’s face, and the 
soft and gentle expression of her gaze penetrated the inmost 
recesses of his being. 

Her look had destroyed all the baser material in the admiral’s 
heart : the pure metal was alone left, and his heart seemed rent 
asunder, like a crucible which had been riven by the fusion of 
metal. 

“Yes, yes,” he repeated, in a still lower voice, and continuing 
to fix upon her a gaze from which the fire of his fierce anger 
had disappeared — “ yes, yes, Henri must have loved you. Oh ! 
madame, for pity’s sake, on my knees I implore you to love my 
brother.” 

Diana remained cold and silent. 

“ Do not reduoe a family to despair, do not sacrifice the 


EES H 0 SPIT A LIE RES. 


439 

future prospects of our race ; be not the cause of the death of 
one from despair, of the others from regret.” 

Diana, still silent, continued to look sorrowfully on the sup- 
pliant bending before her. 

“Oh !” exclaimed Joyeuse, madly pressing his hand against 
his heart, “ have mercy on my brother, have mercy on me !” 

He sprung to his feet like a man bereft of his senses, un- 
fastened, or rather tore open the door of the room where they 
had been conversing, and, bewildered and almost beside him- 
self, fled from the house towards his attendants, who were 
awaiting him at the corner of the Rue d’Enfer. 


CHAPTER XC. 

HIS HIGHNESS MONSEIGNEUR LE DUC DE GUISE. 

On Sunday the ioth of June, towards eleven o’clock in the day, 
the whole court were assembled in the apartment leading to the 
cabinet in which, since his meeting with Diana de Meridor, the 
Due d' Anjou was dying by slow but sure degrees. Neither the 
science of the physicians, nor his mother’s despair, nor the 
prayers which the king had desired to be offered up, had been 
iuxessful in averting the fatal termination. Miron, on the 
morning of this same ioth of June, assured the king that all 
chance of recovery was hopeless, and that Francis d’Anjou 
would not outlive the day. The king pretended to display 
extreme grief, and turning towards those who were present, said, 
‘ This will fill my enemies full of hope.” 

To which remark the queen-mother replied : 

“ Our destiny is in the hands of Heaven, my son.” 

Whereupon Chicot, who was standing humbly and reverently 
near Henri III , added in a low voice : 

“ Let us help Heaven when we can, sire.” 

Nevertheless, the dying man, towards half-past eleven, lost 
both colour and sight ; his mouth, which, up to that moment, 
had remained open, became closed ; the flow of blood which 
for several days past had terrified all who were near him, as the 
bloody sweat of Charles IX. had similarly done at an earlier 
period, had suddenly ceased, and hands and feet became icy 
cold. Henri was sitting beside the head of the couch whereon 
his brother was extended. Catherine was standing in the recess 
in which the bed was placed, holding her dying son’s hand in 
hers. 


440 


THE FOR 7 Y- FT VE GUARDSMEN . 


The Bishop of Chateau-Thierry and the Cardinal de Joyeuse 
repeated the prayers for the dying, which were joined in by all 
who were present, kneeling, and with their hands clasped re- 
verently together. Towards mid-day, the dying man opened 
his eyes ; the sun’s rays broke through a cloud and inundated 
the bed with a flood of light. Francis, who, up to that moment, 
had been unable to move a single finger, and whose mind had 
been obscured like the sun which had just re-appeared, raised 
one of his arms towards heaven with a horror-stricken gesture. 

He looked all round the room, heard the murmuring of the 
prayers, grew conscious of his illness as well as of his weakness, 
became aware of his critical position, perhaps because he already 
caught a glimpse of that unseen and terrible future, the abode of 
certain souls after they have quitted their earthly prison. 

He thereupon uttered a loud and piercing cry, and struck his 
forehead with a force which made every one tremble. 

Then, knitting his brows, as if one of the mysterious incidents 
of his life had just recurred to him, he murmured : 

“ Bussy ! Diana !” 

This latter name had been overheard by none but Catherine, 
so weakened had the dying man’s voice become before pro- 
nouncing it. 

With the last syllable of that name Francis d’Anjou breathed 
his last sigh. 

At this very moment, by a singular coincidence, the sun, which 
had gilded with its rays the royal arms of France, and the 
golden fleurs-de-lis, was again obscured : so that the fleurs- 
de-lis which had been so brilliantly illumined but a moment 
before, became as dark and gloomy as the azure ground which 
they had but recently studded with constellations almost as 
resplendent as those whereon the eye of the dreamer rests in 
his upward gaze towards heaven. 

Catherine let her son’s hand fall. 

Henry III. shuddered, and leaned tremblingly on Chicot’s 
shoulder, who shuddered too, but from a feeling of awe which 
every Christian feels in the presence of the dead. 

Miron placed a golden spatula on Francis’ lips ; after a few 
seconds, he looked at it carefully and said : 

" Monseigneur is dead.” 

Whereupon a deep prolonged groan arose from the ante- 
chamber, like an accompaniment to the psalm which the cardinal 
murmured : 

“ Cedant iniquitates meae ad vocem deprecationis mese.” 


HIS HIGHNESS MONSEIGNEUR LE DUC DE GUISE. 441 

“ Dead,” repeated the king, making the sign of the cross as 
he sat in his fauteuil ; “ my brother, my brother !” 

“The sole heir of the throne of France,” murmured Cathe- 
rine, who, having quitted the bed whereon the corpse was 
lying, had placed herself beside the only son who now re- 
mained to her. 

“ Oh !” said Henri, “ this throne of France is indeed large 
for a king without issue ; the crown is indeed large for a sin 0 le 
head. No children ! no heirs ! Who will succeed me ?” 

Flardly had he pronounced these words when a loud noise 
was heard on the staircase and in the apartments. 

Nambu hurriedly entered the death chamber, and an- 
nounced, — 

“ His Highness Monseigneur le Due de Guise.” 

( Struck by this reply to the question which he had addressed 
to himself, the king turned pale, rose, and looked at his mother. 
Catherine was paler than her son. At the announcement 
of the horrible misfortune which mere chance had foretold to 
his race, she grasped the king’s hand, and pressed it, as if to 
say,— 

“ There lies the danger ; but fear nothing, I am near you.” 

The son and mother, under the influence of the same terror 
and the same menace, had comprehended each other. 

The duke entered, followed by his officers. He entered, hold- 
ing his head loftily erect, although his eyes ranged from the king 
to the death-bed of his brother with a glance not free from a 
certain embarrassment. 

Henri III. stood up, and with that supreme majesty of car- 
riage which, on certain occasions, his singularly poetic nature 
enabled him to assume, checked the duke’s further progress by 
a kingly gesture, and pointed to the royal corpse upon the bed, 
the covering of which was in disorder from his brother’s dying 
agonies. The duke bowed his head, and slowly fell on his 
knees. All around him, too, bowed their heads and bent their 
knees. Henri III., together with his mother, alone remainerl 
standing, and bent a last look, full of pride, upon those around 
him. Chicot observed this look, and murmured in a low tone 
of voice, “Dejiciet potentes de sede et exaltabit humiles ” — 
“He hath put down the mighty from their seat, and hath exalted 
the humble and meek.” 


THE END. 


442 


THE FORTY- FIVE GUARDSMEN. 


$ os t script-. 

A few words with reference to the principal characters in the 
Novel of the “ Forty-five Guardsmen ” are necessary to complete 
the story. 

Diana de Monsoreau, having taken the vows at the Convent 
des Hospitalieres, survived the Due d’Anjou only two years. 
Of Remy, her faithful companion, we hear no more : he dis- 
appeared without leaving a trace behind him. 

History, however, informs us more fully as to the others. 
The Due de Guise, having at last broken into open rebellion 
against Henri III., was so far successful, that with the aid of 
the League he compelled the king to fly from Paris. A hollow 
reconciliation was, however, patched up between them, the Due 
de Guise stipulating that he should be appointed lieutenant- 
general of the kingdom ; but no sooner had the king returned 
to the Louvre, than he determined on the assassination of the 
duke. He sounded Crillon, the leader of the *• Forty-five,” on 
the subject, but this noble soldier refused to have anything to 
do with it, offering, however, to challenge him to single combat. 
De Loignac was less scrupulous, and we know the result ; the 
Due de Guise and his brother the cardinal were both murderet . 
Ten days after this event, Catherine de Medicis, the queen- 
mother, died, regretted by none. 

The Parisians, exasperated by the murder of the Due de 
Guise, declared his brother, the Due de Mayenne, the head of 
the League, and rose against the king, who was again obliged 
to fly. He begged the King of Navarre for aid, who promptly 
responded to the call, and they were shortly before Paris with a 
united army of Catholics and Huguenots. Henri III. was, how- 
ever, pursued by the relentless hate of the clever and unscrupu- 
lous Duchesse de Montpensier. She worked so skilfully on the 
fanatical mind of the young Jacobin friar, Jacques Clement, 
that he undertook the death of the king. He entered the camp 
with letters for Henri, whom he stabbed while reading them. 
The king died on the 2nd August, 1589, after having declared 
Henri of Navarre his successor. 

Of the subsequent life and adventures of Chicot, unfortu- 
nately nothing authentic is known. 


LB 0 '19 


Translator. 

















